


Though I Am Bruised (Know I'll Keep Moving)

by strawberryblonde



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, like there is a lot of blood, nothing too vivid but since it is a vigilante au everyone is always hurt lmao, vigilante!AU, warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 01:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16254296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryblonde/pseuds/strawberryblonde
Summary: Max is prepared for the fact that every now and then his superhero friends will drop by to get a patch up. He really is, despite living in a constant state of worry. What he is not prepared for is the last addiction to the team, a secretive vigilante that seems to always take the hardest blows. Max wants his life back (he really doesn’t).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so heRE WE ARE. Hi everyone lmao I'm kinda nervous because this is the first time I publish something into the f1 fandom AND the first time I have ever written a ff in english, so I'm kinda here hoping there will not be too many mistakes because I couldn't find a beta reader (on this note, if someone wants to correct this...thing, I'll be forever grateful lmao). Really, I reread this thing 2000 times but still, I am sure there will be something wrong. Let me know, plss.
> 
> I don't think it will be longer than 2 or 3 parts, btw.  
> As I said in the tags, there will be a lot of blood. It is nothing super vivid and there are not detailed descriptions but since I want everyone to be safely warned, know it's there (a lot, actually lmao) and everyone is 100% almost always hurt lmao What a JoyTM. 
> 
> Title is a line from Cut my Lip by Twenty One Pilots!! Hope you enjoy! ♥

 

Max Verstappen opens his eyes slowly, sleep still tangled between his fluttering eyelashes. He blinks his confusion away, nose scrunched and warm fingers rubbing onto his bare arms. He glances at the digital clock on his nightstand, it marks four o’clock in the morning. He snorts, because figure his luck to wake up at the crack of dawn during his only free day. 

But Max doesn’t have the time to dwell on his luck (or lack of it, to be specific) because something is wrong, he can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the swirls of pitch black that are dancing in front of his puffy eyes. It feels almost suffocating. So he waits patiently, until he hears it: a loud thud, someone crashing on his kitchen table, a pained hiss that almost reverberates throughout the whole house. 

Max jolts out of the bed, bare feet padding onto the parqueted floor. He grabs a jacket from the nearest chair and sighs, an heavy weight sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. And the fact is, he is not worried about burglars or even murderers coming for him in the middle of the night, because first of all, the most valuable thing they’ll find there is the carpet he keeps stashed into the wardrobe and, second of all, he knows damn well who is on the other side of his bedroom door. 

Or at least, he doesn’t know _per se_ , but despite sleep still clouding his mind, he has no doubts that one of his superhero friends must have been hurt in a fight. 

It has been like that for a while, now. Pierre being the one that started that tradition when, one night, he just decided Max’s apartment was an acceptable alternative to the hospital; so he barged in (using the spare keys Max gave to him many drunk nights ago), severely hurt and with a bleeding wound that looked ten degrees of infected. Max had almost fainted because one thing was studying to become a doctor, another was seeing your best friend passed out on your living room, face pale and tight as if all of his blood had decided to migrate from his body onto Max’s once pristine floor. And from then, it had been an escalation of wounds, and blood, and nights that Max had spent gazing out of the window, eyes skidding frantically between the mantle of smog and grey buildings, just to catch a glimpse of one of his friends.

It never happens, though; it is always too late, them coming to Max when the fight has already happened. 

Max didn’t sign up for that kind of life. He also didn’t know how hard it was to scrub blood out of his sofa. One day, he’ll make all of them repay for his battered furnitures. 

“I am coming,” he cries, feet shuffling into his slippers, “How bad it is?” 

The only answer he gets is a guttural grunt that makes shivers bloom all over his skin. He doesn’t recognize that voice, but there is no doubt that someone is injured; and that someone is actually in his apartment, waiting for some kind of medical attention. Max should be a little more worried, at this point, because he is not used to having over other people besides Pierre, Charles and Lewis, but he figures the questioning can come _after_ he actually saves that poor boy’s life. 

“Stay with me, don’t fall asleep,” Max shouts again, eyes blinking furiously to try and find their way among the chaos that is his room. He never realized how messy he actually is until that moment, when he is trying to walk into a straight line and there is basically the whole expanse of his wardrobe blocking his path.

Sleep has left him in a rush and now he is wide awake, ears strained to catch any significative change in his guest’s breath. 

“‘M not,” the other person slurs, and Max is glad that the silence is almost deafening because otherwise he wouldn’t have heard him. He sighs in his relief, fingertips pressed on the bare wall to keep his balance. 

Max reaches the bathroom after an intense battle against his clothes, snatching the first aid kit with a fury that almost hurt _him_. When he finally makes it to the living room, his breath catches in his lumped, scratchy throat. He can’t see well, because there is a patina of darkness engulfing the whole room, the dim light of the moon only casting a series of blurry shadows on the floor; even then, thought, Max can distinguish an alarming amount of blood, so much that it’s only at a second glance that he is able to spot a yellow lump curled on his sofa. 

His first thought is _damn self-sacrificing superheroes_. Then he takes a second of his precious time to mourn his sofa, because there is no way in hell he will be able to clean up all that mess without, at least, leaving dubious stains scattered all over the fabric. And it’s not like many people, besides the superheroes themselves, visit that apartment, but still, he is pretty sure blood stains on your couch don’t scream _responsible, well-balanced person._  

“What happened?” Max asks, voice a broken whisper. The yellow lump raises his head and he is responsive enough to allow Max’s frown to ease a little. His unfocused eyes catch Max’s.

“I am hurt.” he says, croaked vowels that fight to move past his swollen tongue and his bloody lips.

“Eh, no shit Sherlock.” Max counters, an hint of exasperation sliding its way trough his worried voice and stern expression. He kneels near him, pajama pants getting soaked with blood in a way that is making him dizzy, “Help me a little, mh? Otherwise I‘d have to cut your suit and I don’t know, last time I did it to Silver Arrow, he almost kicked me.” 

The mass of yellow convulses and Max almost loses it for a second -hands already high in the air to do something, everything, _anything_ \- before realizing that the wheezing sound he has just heard was actually a laughter. Compressed, broken and full of dubious liquids, but still a laughter. 

“Lewis, man, I adore him.” he says feverishly, his forehead now coming to rest right onto Max’s knees, “Ribs, lot of kicks, maybe a concussion. Also, something is in my lungs — I can’t breath.” 

Max closes his eyes for a moment, eyelids scrunched so hard that there is an explosion of white, sparkling directly against his irises. It may be a little to much, for him. He is used to minor wounds, mostly cuts and bruises, nothing that can’t be managed with some knowledge, a little bit of stitching and several emergency aids. And now there he is, his hands cradling onto that stranger’s chest and his mind spinning all over the place, trying to figure what the fuck he should be doing. So much for crisis management.

Any other occasions, he would have suggested an hospital, because those wounds are way too deep and critical to be treated there, in his home. However, he knows how bad and secretive those superheroes assholes react whenever that possibility is even just hinted at, so he keeps his mouth shut and takes another calming breath. 

“ _Jesus_.” he murmurs, assessing every single thing that is wrong with the body curled over his legs. His hands are slightly shaky when he puts the gloves on, but it feels like a switch has been pressed, inside his brain. “What’s your name, anyway?” 

“Bull.” 

Max nods, and he knows Bull can’t see him, but he needs it to feel more grounded. He has a name, he has an anamnesis. It is almost like any other day at the E.R. 

“So, Bull, stay with me. This is gonna hurt like hell.” 

 

    -

 

When Max Verstappen wakes up for the second time, that day, every single bone in his body hurts like hell. He probably doesn’t have it as bas as Bull, but it still feels like a truck has run over him. Twice. 

He blames it on the chair on which he ended up spending the night, but maybe the fault is really his. Maybe all those months ago he should have convinced Pierre that the hospital was the better choice, that it’s not like they can just come and go from his house, leaving him with an heart attack and an apartment that always ends up resembling a dumpster. 

“You up?” Bull asks, voice slurred with sleep, and Max presses his knuckles right against his groggy eyelids. 

“Should be the one asking that.” Max says, a chuckle escaping his chapped lips, “How are you feeling?”

And with that, he is up in no time, index and medium already curled over Bull’s wrist to feel his pulse. It’s stable, a rhythmic _rat-a-tat_ that drums against some ribs that have seen better times but that, fortunately, are not broken at all. 

“Better,” Bull murmurs. It looks like he wants to smile, or maybe laugh, but his lips are a mess of crusted blood and purple bruises; also, Max supposes his chest hurts too much to even speak, let alone _laugh_. And he doesn’t know why, but it feels like Bull has one of those full laughs that boom and echo wherever he goes; those stomach laughs that have the power to always light up the room.

“Good, don’t strain yourself. You should take some paracetamol. Is it okay with you?” 

Bull raises his arm, slowly, fingers lightly scratching at his temple. Max briefly considers the idea of wiping the crusty residues off his face, but he bites his lips, that suggestion disappearing from the tip of his tongue at light speed. After all, it is a thing Max only does with Pierre and Charles, people that he is close with in a way that goes beyond the strictly professional doctor-stubborn superhero relationship. He never wiped blood from Lewis’s face, for example. 

(That may be because every time Lewis crashes at his place, the morning after Max doesn’t even have the time to open his eyes that Sebastian is already there, face tight with distress and a _thank you_ whispered between his clenched teeth. But _whatever_.) 

“Yes, it would be much appreciated in fact.” Bull replies, his whole face writhing in a theatrical way. “I am in an incommensurable pain, here.” 

Max’s snort a laugh right out of his nose, “Well, Silver Arrow doesn’t take painkillers. They are poison for his powers, so I had to ask— better safe than sorry, I guess?” he offhandedly says, his head already dipped into the first aid kit. And he is sure no other doctor has such an encompassing kit, but that’s just how he does things: he either gives no shit or he throws his whole life in it. No in between. 

“Really? Anyway, you already knew Silver Arrow’s real name is Lewis, right? Because I think yesterday I was pretty high on adrenaline and _mh_ , ended up outing him?” Bull’s eyes are elusive, bouncing from Max’s ugly orange curtains to all the medical supplies scattered on the floor, alongside a fortress of towels. Max has to suppress a laugh between his teeth. 

“Yes, I knew, don’t worry. Him and Sebastian practically leave here. But I feel like me and you never met?” and Max has been extremely nice, in phrasing it that way, because he really has no clue of who this Bull is and had it been someone else, Bull would have probably been thrown out of the door the second he was out of danger.

“Ah, right. Pierre gave me this address some time ago. I really didn’t need it until, well, yesterday.” he says, sheepishly. Max wonders how does he found the physical strength to be so cheerful, despite having a body that looks like it went trough a blender. _And lost_. 

“So you are the new addiction to the team, mh?” Max asks, standing up to stare at the mess that is his living room in that instant. He starts to clean up a little, the hem of his pajamas dragging onto the parqueted floor. Sometimes, Max has to recognize and glorify that he has great ideas when drunk, because the decision to turn his carpeted floor into parquet has been the most brilliant one he has ever had in all his twenty four years of life. He can only imagine the pain of having to scrub blood out of a white carpet. 

“Yep, I don’t join them regularly but I help.” Bull says, proud. He has a content smile grazing his lips and Max is pretty sure that is not only because of the drugs have started to kick in. He has this weird feeling that Bull may be the most relaxed and stern person in the team (and maybe in the whole vastness of Max’s circle of friends). 

“Perfect. We will talk more later, but I think now you have to catch some sleep, okay?”

Bull mumbles his objection to that idea, but it is a week murmur, almost a slurred whisper. His eyes are already closed, behind the mask, and Max should really sweet talk him into taking it off, to examine eventual head injuries. He knows how superheroes tend to be with the whole secret identity thing, though, so he just shrugs, throwing a last concerned look at Bull’s sleepy figure, before disappearing to do some needed laundry. 

 

        -

 

Max’s ability in doing laundry is inversely proportional to his artistry when it comes to be the superhero designed nurse. So, while he has very little problems in saving people’s life, no matter the severity of their injures, he apparently can’t wash his clothes for shit. 

And it’s not that he just has some _difficulties_ , it is a real incapacity. One time, he literally drowned his whole apartment in soap and fabric softener (and there are still signs of that disaster, in the form of haloes scattered throughout the whole living room’s wall); another time, he just put his clothes on the washing machine, without adding soap or anything. _It was hell_. Not to forget there is a whole drawer, in his wardrobe, full of all those shirts that he shrunk, to the point of making them unwearable, or turned into the weirdest of colors. 

He may be good at saving lives but he sure as hell isn’t at being a functional adult. 

Thus, he has been sitting on an uncomfortable chair ( _again_ ) for the last twenty minutes, because he can’t trust that devilish washing machine to work properly if left unsupervised (Max is still somehow convinced that there is a sort of conspiracy against him). And it doesn’t matter he should really check on Bull, because he knows he did a good job, with those stitches. He can’t say the same for the washing program he just set, though. 

“Did that washing machine do something viciously wrong?”

Max’s head turns abruptly, his legs almost falling from the small wooden table on which they were perched. Bull is slouched against the door frame, an arm curled protectively over his abdomen. He looks pale, face strained with the effort it took to walk until there and rivulets of sweat breaking all over his hollow cheeks. Somehow, there still is a phantom grin ghosting over his lips. 

“What the fuck are you doing up?” Max cries, cellphone slipping from his frantic hands and crashing onto the floor. His chat with Pierre is still open, texts flashing as soon as Pierre sends them. And it’s not that Max didn’t trust Bull’s words, but, again, _better safe than sorry_. He really had to confirm his version; to be one hundred percent sure that Pierre trusted Bull enough with giving him Max’s address. 

“I feel better?” Bull mumbles, lips curled into an insecure frown. He heaves a sigh, shifting his weight to be almost completely slumped over the door. His knees wobble a little and Max is out of his chair before Bull has the chance to open his mouth to babble another weak excuse.

“Better my ass. It looks like you have a fever. Do you feel weird?” Max says, cold fingertips curling over Bull’s elbow to support him. 

Bull shakes his head, almost flinging away from Max’s strenuous stare. Despite being so bright it looks like the sun has reflected its whole mass in them, his blue eyes can appear particularly intimidating, when needed. 

“Nausea?” 

Another head shake, but this time Max can see right trough Bull’s bullshit, because his face may be entirely covered by that horrible mask, but there is no mistake in the faint whimpers he cannot restrain himself from making. 

“You have to lie down again, okay?” Max says, voice so austere there really is no room for questioning or objections. But Bull is a stubborn unapologetic asshole and he does the exact opposite of what asked, mouth already opens to counter. He breaths in a painful hiss that reverberates trough his lungs in way that is everything but comforting. Max doesn’t let him speak, though, index finger pressing on Bull’s nose in a threatening way.   

“Lie down. No talk. Do you understand me?” and there is something almost comical in the way Max’s eyes are fixated onto Bull’s hidden ones, mouth twisted into a tight line. “Now, can you manage to go back to the couch with me?” 

“You are boring,” Bull blurts, vowels all slurred. He sounds drunk. Max shakes his head, eyes rolled in annoyance, but there is the faintest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. 

“Yeah, yeah, what a menace I am, caring for your wellbeing.”

Bull curls his mouth into a pout that makes him look ridiculous, “You know, I don’t even know your name, doctor.” 

Max is a blink away from rolling his eyes again, but he manages to catch himself just in time (because he hasn’t forgot all the times his mother told him that if he didn’t stop doing _that,_ he would have ended up stuck with crossed eyes) “My name is Max, by the way. And I don’t know your name either, so—“ 

“Hey, I told you, it’s _Bull_.” Bull says, almost offended, glassy eyes skidding all over the room without meeting Max’s. Max sincerely hopes he hasn’t taken more painkillers, while he was busy fighting his personal battle against the washing machine, because he seems particularly high on something. Or maybe that is just how his personality works. And it’s not like Max despises it, because funny people are always the one he likes the best; however, he just wants to asses his medical condition without feeling like he is loosing a contest against a toddler. 

“Your real name. And let me be honest, Bull is a terrible superhero name.” 

Bull gasps, mouth wide open with disbelief. Max doesn’t know if that is part of a well thought pantomime  or if he really is resented by his words. He can’t say he cares that much, because despite starting to develop a sort of affection for that funky, medical-attentions-repellent superhero, Bull _is_ a terrible name.  

“You are hurting my feelings. And I am not a superhero, I am a _vigilante_.” 

Max smiles for real this time, teeth nibbling onto his bottom lip, “Excuse me, do I look like I care?” 

“Rude!” Bull utters, dismayed, “If I could move my hand, at this point I would be clutching my chest in pain.” 

“There, there, you’ll live.” Max snickers, head slightly shaking with a fondness that seems almost weird, considering they have known each other for less than 24 hours, fifteen of which have been spent sleeping the pain away. 

“Here we go,” he adds, then, gently lowering Daniel onto the sofa. It is still crumpled; dirty bandages and dry blood stains scattered here and there. Max doesn’t even have the strength to sigh or complain anymore, he just closes his eyes in front of that mess while he grabs the antiseptic from the small table at his right, the one that should have been near the lamp and is now, instead, pressed against the couch’s armrest. Max suspects Bull must have hit that too, the prior night.

“Let me know,” Bull says, eyes following Max’s movement with a painstakingly precision, “It will hurt”. It’s a statement, not a question, and Max knows that Bull is only partially joking, because he can sense a hint of fear in the way his muscles have contracted, his whole stance projected toward the backrest of the couch.  

Max smile grows a little bit wider, spontaneous and reassuring like the one he flashes at his patients “Well, like hell. But you’ll survive.” 

Bull’s teeth are clenched and Max, tongue stuck between his lips in concentration, tries to be as gentle as possible while he taps the cotton wool on Bull’s slashed stomach, “You popped some stitches because you couldn’t stay put. I have to redo them. Tell me something, distract yourself.”

“No need. Didn’t have any problems yesterday, did I?” he says, voice breathy and strained. Max grimaces sympathetically, and he is kinder than he would have been in any other occasions -occasions that didn’t involve him turning apparently soft for that silly vigilante- when he murmurs: “Yeah, well, yesterday you were high on adrenaline. Today, you are not. Trust me, it will hurt.” 

“Fine, but I can’t say much because I am a super secretive super agent. All super.” Bull mutters, face pressed against the fabric of the sofa to try muffling his own grunts.

“Amazing. And this super secretive super vigilante has any intention of letting me look under the mask for any kind of head injures?” Max’s voice is casual and offhanded, like it would have been if he was talking about the weather. Or the last thing he ordered from his favorite restaurant. He figured it was better to take the indifference road, though, rather than going full doctor on him. It looks like Bull doesn’t mingle well with authorities and being bossed around. 

“Nice try, Max. No head injures.” he hiccups, and it took him almost a minute to talk around the wheezing hisses of displeasure.

Max snorts an half laugh that sounds more like a scoff, “Hey, it’s not like I care to reveal your identity. I just want to do my job.”

Then he smiles, tender, while gently lifting Bull’s arm to look him in the eyes, “Everything good?” 

Bull does a jerking movement that looks a lot like a nodding.

“How much have we left?” he asks, quietly, and his fingertips are cold when they end up brushing against Max’s bare arm. Max chuckles, a satisfied expression that is making a little dimple pop out onto his left check. 

“All done, there’s no need to praise my amazing stitching skills.” and he is all beams and sparkling eyes when he finally gets up, lightly bumping his knuckles against Bull’s shoulder. He meant it in a funny way and somehow, it ended up being quite intimate. 

Bull laughs, it is raucous and broken, but Max is glad to discover it sounds exactly how he had pictured it in his mind. This encompassing cacophony that curves in all the right places and it is now sweeter than a pot of honey and now crisp as the fierce sea breeze in a summer day. “You are so modest.”

They stay quiet for a while, Max padding all over the living room to collect everything and Bull watching him from the couch, eyes almost unfocused and head still a little bit dizzy. 

“Do you think I can leave, tomorrow?” Bull blurts at one point, breaking the comfortable silence. Max glances at him, fingers coming to rest on his chin, grazing lightly at the soft skin of his lips. He can’t say he is surprised by Bull’s rush because he knows how the whole vigilante thing works: they are free spirits, ashes of a reality that slides and embeds with other people’s lives without every really sticking. And maybe the only reason why it’s different with Pierre and Charles is because he grew up with them, because he _saw_ them become those blind protectors of the night.

So _yes_ , he is not surprised, but that doesn’t mean he is not afraid, in someway. That he is not uneasy at the idea of letting him free to roam the street again. And it is true that people like Bull can’t be kept on bed rest for long, but Max still feels this sudden urge to scream his frustration, to make him understand he kinda has to be alive if he wants to keep protecting his beloved city. Straining himself until a breaking point will not help anyone. He knows Bull won’t listen, though. They never do, stupid self-sacrificing superheroes with their hero complex. 

They go, and get hurt, over and over again. Because they keep getting bolder, all of them, drunk with success and glory; but they also keep getting worse with injuries. Always more bruised, always more battered than the previous time. And Max is stuck there, in his apartment, worrying if maybe this will be the time his medical ability will fail; the time it won’t be _enough_. 

“You are still in bad shape. I’ll let you leave at the condition you will not go full vigilante for at least a couple of days.” Max says and it’s hard to talk past the lump that got stuck in his throat, right at the base of his trachea. His voice is terse and Max draws a deep breath before lifting his eyes to meet Bull’s. 

He can spot an understanding glint in them, as if Bull knows exactly what just went trough Max’s head. They both keep quiet. 

“C’mon, you know I won’t do it.” Bull replies, a little later, and there is a mischievous smile dancing on his lips. Although Max is glad to see they are back to a human healthy color, he can’t help but sigh because of course he knew. At least Bull is being honest with him, candidly admitting that Max can take his threat and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Max should be pissed, angry even. He is not. 

He appreciates the frankness, after all; because if there is something he can’t stand is when people speak to him with that condescending tone that cripple all their consonants and sounds like a slap on the face. It makes his skin prickle in all the wrong ways. Bull could have humored him, but he didn’t.

Max doesn’t know if he did it out of respect or because, again, he is an unapologetic asshole. 

“Can you at least try not to get involved with crime? You really had it bad, Bull.” Max pleads, because one last try never hurt anyone. Bull smiles, and it’s genuine this time. Not a smirk, not a mocking laugh. His lips are soft while they stretch out on his face, almost cutting it in two. 

“I’ll try, but no promises.” he says, hands slowly raising to scratch at his stubble. Max can take that, can appreciate the effort. It isn’t enough, it isn’t reassuring, but it is _something_. 

“I’ll take what I can. Now, come here, I will help you wipe the blood from your face.” 

 

                    ❀

 

Max crumbles onto Sebastian Vettel’s couch with an exaggeratedly tired sigh, cramped legs finally having enough room to stretch a bit. Sebastian laughs softly while he places a bowl of popcorns right on the armrest and tries to fetch the remote control from wherever it snuck between the couch’s cushions. 

“Hard day?” he says and there is something so paternal and calm, in his voice, that Max can’t help but feel safe and at home. He flashes Sebastian a thankful smile, just because he can. 

“Try hard week. I met Bull, by the way, did you know about him?” Max casually asks, hands sliding into the bowl to get an handful of popcorns. He stuffs his mouth as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. And it kinda feels like it, with the whole Bull thing and the unbearable shifts he got at the hospital; not to mention he still has two courses he needs to attend, in college. He is not sure whether he ate, that morning, or if he just forgot all together. His stomach is grumbling, though, and Sebastian’s popcorns have always been the best, so he digs in a second time, trying to crunch away the exhaustion. 

“Mh, vaguely. Lewis mentioned him. He said he is not that big of a team player.” Sebastian says, shrugging. Max makes a noncommittal sound because he doesn’t know if he completely agrees with that statement, “He sounded pretty secretive.” 

“Did you see him without the mask?” Sebastian pries, smirking, and there is a sparkling of curiosity dancing into his bright eyes. Max laughs and it feels refreshing after his hard morning at the E.R. He is just thankful that somehow he has Sebastian to go to, when things get tough. When his two best friends are busy punching criminals and trying to eradicate corruption from the city. 

It is not unusual, that movie night they planned. They do it whenever they don’t feel like being alone during a mission of their beloved.

(And for once, in those occasions, it’s Sebastian and Lewis’s couch that gets all the blood and the chaos.) 

“Nope, tried several times but nothing. Very secretive, indeed.” Max mutters, talking around another handful of popcorns that Sebastian is forced to confiscate from his hands to prevent him from finishing them before they even had the chance to start the movie. 

“Lewis said he won’t reveal what his real name is. All I know is that tonight he didn’t go with them because, apparently, he has his own personal war to carry on.” Sebastian ponders, eyes unfocused as if he is too absorbed in something that is going trough his mind to actually process what he is saying. Then, as Max keeps complaining in the background that he wants his goddamn bowl back, he adds “Look, do you want a proper dinner? You seem hungry. Max, have you been eating lately, _right_?” 

Max feels warm inside, a content calmness sweeping in his stomach. He closes his eyes, basking in that moment; he somehow can still perceive Sebastian’s reassuring smile directed at him, the sweet one that always puts everyone at ease. Maybe it is because Max is the one always doing the caring, but for once, in that moment, he is in the receiving end. It is so damn nice. 

“Yes?” he says, sheepishly, crystal blue eyes sparkling with mirth, “No? Sometimes. My schedule is really hectic.” 

Sebastian rolls his eyes, an hand gently smacking on top of Max’s mop of honey hair, “You are incredible. Don’t make me worry, mh?” 

Max laughs and it’s a little bit emotional, now, that laugh that curves around his tongue and feels like an hug. Then, he follows Sebastian into the kitchen, goofily climbing to sit onto the countertop. He childishly sways his feet, head sticking into the credenza to see if he can steal something else to eat before dinner is ready. He suspects that, if he keeps robbing them of all their food, they will probably ask him to contribute to the grocery expenses. Still, they own him for all the sofa covers he had bought over the last few months (and since Bull, he had to actually change the couch all together) so they are kinda even.

Sebastian throws him a stern look, “We eat there, you know.”

Max shrugs, shaking a package of half eaten Cheetos “I _am_ eating, strictly speaking.” 

“Insufferable. That’s what you are.” Sebastian deadpans, gazing straight at the cheeky smile that is dancing over Max’s lips. Or what can be seen of his lips, underneath a mess of popcorns and cheetos’s crumbles. 

“Oh shut up, I am your favorite.” 

Sebastian doesn’t answer that, he just shakes his head fondly, turning back to cooking. Max watches him chopping vegetables, wondering for a second how it must feel to cook with someone else, to have the uncanny certainty that turning left or right would mean be met with another pair of eyes, and arms and lips. Two hearts beating simultaneously. He bets that kitchen is full of life, the nights where Lewis isn’t going out in a silver spandex; he can pictures them, side by side, some music in the background and maybe even a little bit of dancing, who knows. Those two seems like the sappy couple every group of friends has.

His smile softens a bit and he presses the tip of his socked feet against Sebastian’s hip.  

“Are you worried about Lewis?” he asks, and he hopes he isn’t sticking his finger into an open wound. He just wants to be there for Sebastian, because he knows how it feels to be so on edge. To feel useless, hands twitching with the need to do something, _anything_. And being the team personal nurse, in someway, helps a lot. It makes him believe that, whatever happens, he at least has a shot at trying to make it better. At trying to solve it. 

“A little. Nothing unusual.” but Sebastian’s voice is distant, words cut sharply as if Sebastian doesn’t trust himself enough to tell that lie. Max drops the topic, stuffing another chip into his mouth. 

“So,” Sebastian chirps after a minute of silence, both of them deeply lost in their own thoughts and chaotic minds, “Tell me more about this Bull, I am really curious.” 

Max lights up because babbling away his troubles and concerns is a speciality of his, he his _that_ good he could easily get a degree on it, “He is really nice. Funny in that annoying way, you know.”

Sebastian wiggles his eyebrows, briefly lifting his head from the carrot he is currently torturing. Or maybe that’s just the avant-gardist way of cutting vegetables, Max wants to give Sebastian the benefit of the doubt. 

“Mh, yes? Seems _nice_.” he says, lips tight to suppress his giggles. “Were you stricken by his personality?” 

And there is a little more wiggling. _Too much wiggling_. Max wants to throw the bag of chips in his face but he just diverts his eyes from Sebastian’s. The smile that blooms onto his burning cheeks is a little creepier than he intended. 

“Oh yes, because you can see so much of a person in just two days.” Max mumbles, eyes rolling so hard they almost hit the back of his head. 

“Two days, wow. Not even Lewis stayed that long at your house. Was it really bad?” and Max adores how Sebastian can go from cheekily implying an attraction to worrying about the wellbeing of this person he actually never met. 

“Pretty bad, yes. Nothing that couldn’t be solved with some stitches though. I was afraid for his lungs but fortunately nothing was there.” Max explains, leaving his regal seat on the counter to actually go and do something useful. Like, for example, saving those poor vegetables from Sebastian’s awful cutting technique. Avantgarde or not, Max can actually hear Gordon Ramsey scream, wherever he is. 

“Here, give me a knife I’ll help.” he adds, then. Sebastian glances at him, eyes unsure and dubious; he looks as if he is about to protest in some way. After an inner battle, he lands Max a knife, with a stern “ _I don’t do stitches_ ” that makes Max cackle. 

“Excuse me,” Max blurts, and he can’t keep on trying to look offended when a laugh is roaring inside his ribcage, “I am trusted with a _scalpel_.” 

“You sure are not, Maxie. I bet you are trusted with catheters and blood pressure measurements.” 

Sebastian giggles like he has just said the funniest thing in the world and he seems so proud of his own little joke that Max doesn’t even have the strength to get annoyed. So he just mocks a deadpan laugh, nose scrunched and tongue a blink away from sticking out of his lips, a childish response to Sebastian’s even more childish laughter. And maybe they are doing that pantomime to distract themselves from the thinking that their friends are God knows _where_ , doing God knows _what_.  

Max can’t really forget it, thought, because there is a constant buzzing, at the back of his mind; the unsettling feeling that it may take less than a second for his whole life to be turned upside down. He suspects Sebastian feels the same way, because it is true that he keeps laughing and that his mouth is stretched so wide it can almost pass as sincere, but there is no denying in the heaviness flashing every now and then in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Max. At least you can do amazing things in saving the guys, mh?” Sebastian adds after he has laughed for another solid five minutes. Max hits Sebastian’s shoulder with his own and doesn’t say anything. 

Comfortable silence engulfs them in the small kitchen, the only sounds being the rhythmic _tap tap_ of the knives against the chopping board and the crackling of the oil in the frying pan. Then, a piercing ring shrieks, reverberating throughout the whole room. 

Time seems to have stopped in that exact instant. 

Sebastian’s eyes meet Max’s and he doesn’t need to say anything, because Max immediately knows that it’s Lewis. He can see it in the patina that has just lowered onto Sebastian’s irises: they feel distant, fragments of every possible outcome of that mission flashing, against his pupils, in closed sequence. 

Max bites his lower lip, “Do you want me to read it?” 

Sebastian shakes his head, a grateful sad smile ghosting over his now pale lips. The pan is still crackling, it smells like the oil has burned. Sebastian gently lowers the knife onto the counter, drying his hands on the dish rag he had previously tossed over his shoulder. 

The walk to the cellphone seems eternal as if there aren’t just a bunch of steps between them and the phone, but a distance the size of the whole country. Max feels dizzy and it is probably due to the lack of oxygen, because he has stopped breathing the second Sebastian’s fears have washed all over him too. He puts his hands on the counter, head low. He isn’t thinking, not really, his mind is just a blank convulsion of distress and terrible thoughts that he is trying to push as far away from him as possible. 

“They are all right.” Sebastian breathes and it feels like their whole reality has just came back into place with a violent rush “Mission complete. Only Charles needs stitches, but it is a light scratch.” 

Everything is turning back to life, in that moment, Max gulping air as if his head has just resurfaced from underwater. It feels like waking up, coming back to his senses after he has spent the last four hours onto autopilot. And maybe it is only suggestion, but Max feels like the world around him is more vivid, now: colors flashier, noises louder; he has this sudden urge to snatch a picture. 

Sebastian smiles at Max, lips stretching wide and reassuring onto his red cheeks. And when Max goes back to chopping, he finally feels like a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

At the back of his mind, though, he can’t stop thinking whether Bull is safe or not, out there, in that jungle of grey buildings and personal wars that seem almost endless, in their tragedy. 

 

    -

 

Max comes back from his lecture at five pm in the afternoon, feet dragging heavily on the floor and the third consecutive yawn twisting his mouth. He opens the door with numb fingers, keys slipping from his sweaty fingertips a couple of times before he manages to put them in the keyhole. He hears something, loud noises exploding rhythmically; they seem so far away, in that moment, and it takes a while for his fogged brain to process that they are not coming from another apartment, but from his own, apparently turned into the scene of a cacophony of thuds and swear words.

He sighs, loudly, because the last thing he wants, as the icing to that tremendous day, is to be thrown into another adrenaline driven quarter hour. Just to be sure, he slides his hand into his medical bag, fingers curling around the gloves to be ready to face every possibility that will present in front of him. 

When he opens the door, though, he has to blink several time because it is oddly dark, shapes clearly visible around the room, but almost indistinguishable. A quick glance confirms him that there is someone bleeding onto his floor (thank God his couch has been spared this time) and all his curtains have been drawn to block the sun light as much as possible. 

“What happened?” Max whispers and his voice is so tired it sounds almost unreal, even to his own ears. He switches the light on and the second his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, eyelids fluttering to speed the process, he feels like air has been punched right out of his lungs. Violently. He drops the bag near the entrance, heart thundering in his chest; and it’s faster, with every passing second in which the reality of what is happening actually sinks into his uncooperative, exhausted brain. 

“It’s Bull,” Pierre murmurs, gently squeezing Max’s hand in a way that is meant to be both comforting and a little urging. Max doesn’t need to hear anything else, he takes literally three seconds to asses the condition of his friend (that, gladly, seem to be shaken but overall fine) and then he throws himself on the floor. His knees hit the parquet, hard, and it resonates in the silence with a painful thump. 

His fingers are rapid and frantic whilst he rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up his elbows. He can feel three pairs of apprehensive gazes focused on him, burning holes onto his back. Weariness has left him in a rush, leaving behind only a tingling feeling. 

Max cradles Bull’s head between his hands, “Hey, Bull. What’s wrong?” he asks and his voice is tremulous and broken, words that have to push their way past the lump stuck in his throat. 

Bull doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed, face twisted into a mask of pain and distress. He is pale, so pale Max feels like throwing up. But there is no space for _that_ , no time for his own personal worries; he has to switch from Max to Nurse Max. It’s not easy, not when his fingers are trembling, not when he is a blink away from hyperventilating; from shaking Bull’s unresponsive body until he replies, until he shows any sign of conscience. 

“I’ll have to cut your ugly yellow suit if you don’t answer me, mh?” Max says, a weak laugh jiggling its way out of his mouth. Bull wheezes softly, bloody lips curving almost imperceptibly. Max takes it as a sing, so he grabs the scissors while he utters a delicate “Don’t kick me once you are recovered, okay?” that is met with another, even faintest smile. 

Max proceeds to cut the front of the yellow suit. And it would have been glorious to destroy that obnoxious piece of spandex, if there wasn’t a more dead than alive Bull crumpled between his arms. The silence is deafening, Max’s ragged breath echoing trough the walls. 

Then, he sees it. The wound. But it’s not like any other wound he has treated until that moment. It is not a simple cut, or a bruise, or the sign Bull has been fallen victim of a sword. It is so much more than that and Max feels like he has just fallen into a giant well.  

“What the fuck,” Max shouts, head snapping toward his friends. His neck creaks painfully. His pupils are bloodshot and weary, eyes frantically alternating between the other three people that are in his living room. They seem to demand an explanation nobody can give. Lewis has his head hidden between his hands. Pierre and Charles look as stricken as Max; them glancing at each other, probably trying to recollect the events of that night, to grasp the situation and understand how the hell did it happen.

And Max has no doubt that is not their fault, because Bull seems that kind of vigilante that throws himself in the face of danger, screw logic and common sense. He has the spirit of a fighter in the body of an hopeless believer. Max wants him to wake up just to scream it in his face, to ask him why the fuck he feels this need of blindly head butting into risky and potentially life-threatening situations, no matter the consequences. No matter everyone else. 

It hurts him. The idea Bull is so irrationally driven by his battle he doesn’t feel like there are people waiting for him, at home. Worrying for his safety. And it’s true, neither of them know him particularly well, but Max still cares. He always cares.  

“What the _fuck_ , what the fucking _fuck_ this is a fucking _gun shot_!” he cries again, voice higher, broken; vowels crackling as if Max is shouting them at the top of his lungs, straining his vocal cords to a point of no return. It feels like a slap in the face. 

Max’s hands press on the wound, hard. Bull whimpers, rivulets of sweat dripping onto his weary face. His fingertips graze lightly against Max’s, before his hand slides against his body and thumps back onto the floor with a thud that sinisterly echoes in their ears. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Max whispers, but he is so past logic that he doesn’t even realize what he is saying “It’s gonna be fucking okay, stay with me Bull. Mh? Stay with me.” 

Max’s head lower for an instant to get bandages, his hair getting in the way, sticking into his tired eyes. Max moves them away with a sharp slap of his forearm. 

“What can we do?” Pierre murmurs and he looks hopelessly lost, arms spread and head turning into every direction “How can we help?” 

Max draws in a deep breath. He pushes all his thoughts in a corner of his chaotic brain, compartmentalizing in a way he has never done before. It makes him feel sick, but there is no time for anything that is not Bull’s condition. Bull’s safety. The only thing that flashes into his brain is an infinite string of _save him_ that curls around every synapsis, driving Max’s movements. Guiding him onto his goal.

His hands finally steady on the wound. “I need towels. Pierre, go get them. Lewis, Charles, you two help me move him on my bed. _Now_.” 

In the blink of an eye, everyone is in motion. In that moment Max can’t feel anything past the thunderous sound of his own blood rumbling right into his ears. His index and medium are pressed against Bull’s pulse. It is weak, a soft fluttering that seems to survive only on sheer will. 

Max will make that enough.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, probably the only reason why I am posting this second part, even though I don't like any of it, is because I still have leftover adrenaline from yesterday race (plus I will probably have ended up erasing it for the 5th time) lmaaao I have rewrote this so many times I have forgot what I had initially wrote all together.  
> There is no much blood this time, like, two or three mentions of it. Also, it is way more fluff than I had intended because ehm ehm what's angst? I don't know her. 
> 
> Unless I'll burn it first, there will be also a final third part. 
> 
> As per usual, I've read it 2000 times but I'm sure there will be mistakes or whatever. Please, let me know in the comments, all criticism is highly appreciated!!
> 
> This being said, I hope you'll enjoy this...thing. ♥

 

  
Everything is confused, a blur of shapes and outlines mingling together to the point Max doesn’t even know what he is looking at, let alone what he is _doing_. There is sweat hanging onto his eyelashes and Max flicks it away with shaky fingers. He keeps moving, almost as if his mind has detached from his body, numb hands working of their own volition. Stitching and pressing and pulling. 

It’s chaos. A towel flashes in front of his face, then it’s the antiseptic again; liters of it, pungent smell making Max’s nose hitch. There is a whimper, Max wants to throw up. 

His voice feels distant whilst he murmurs words of reassurance. There is no one else to hear them but him. And maybe that’s their real purpose, maybe Max’s continuous string of _it’s gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay_ isn’t directed at Bull, at all. Maybe he is the one who needs to hear it. 

It lasts an eternity and the blink of an eye. Time is a weird concept, in those moments, when everything simultaneously speeds up and slows down; a roller coaster of shouted directions and hands that fly everywhere, grabbing everything, slapping and throwing. It is nauseating, all that blood, all those suppressed emotions that threaten to bubble up at any second. 

His floor resembles a battlefield.

Max’s head hurts. It hurts to the point his vision is crossed. He blinks, and then he blinks some more, trying to regain focus. To hang onto a reality that it’s slipping away from his sweaty fingers. It’s almost like he is stuck in a bubble, floating, but the only thing he really wants to do is to claw onto Bull’s unconscious body until he will start regaining color, until the bleeding will have stopped. 

He needs something, anything. A sign. 

And his hands keep working. Faster, _harder_. 

His breath is labored. A light breeze blows from the open window and of all times, this is the moment Max notices that his curtains ruffle in a weird way, that they catch onto the handle; they will probably shred soon. The wind feels cold onto his damp skin, goosebumps blooming all over his heavy arms. 

“Stay with me, we are almost done.” he whispers, broken voice getting lost behind the rumble of a city that is still wide awake. 

Everything feels amplified. The thunders of cars’ engines; someone is screaming, somewhere in the neighborhood, but to Max it sounds like the screams are reverberating right into his ears. 

Max’s body is almost vibrating when he steps away from the bed. Bull’s expression has softened, now. No more scrunched features; even his mask isn’t crumpled anymore and Max supposes he is no longer frowning. His pulse is stable. 

Max hopes it will be enough. 

 

    -

 

Max closes the door of the bedroom behind his sore back, carefully lowering the handle to be as quiet as possible. There is a soft click, resonating into the empty corridor, and Max strains his ears to catch any change into Bull’s relaxed breath. Nothing differs from the last time he has checked, it is still a cycle of raucous intakes, followed by strenuous exhales: a ragged lullaby that sounds so broken Max’s heart painfully clench. 

Max sighs, and he doesn’t know if he is actually relieved; because stability is good, no changes is good. But it could have been _better_. He lets his head fall into his hands: they smell of disinfectant and broken promises. He needs a shower, or maybe twenty, to scrub away that tingling sensation that is persistently prickling onto his skin. He is shaking again, the adrenaline rush that kept him on the move, until that moment, slowly fading away. Leaving him with mushy bones and cramped muscles; his faltering heartbeat is now a slow thumping and now a tumultuous ride. 

Max remains like that for a while, back slumped over the wooden door, unsure whether his feet would be steady enough to lead him into his living room. Suddenly, there is an hand gently tapping on his shoulder and he snaps back to reality with a piercing hiss. 

It’s Sebastian, face so close to Max’s their nose are almost touching. He looks tired, mouth thin and the faintest glint of distress, sparkling into his irises. Max collapses onto his chest with a huff. 

He wants to ask him when he has arrived, how the hell he hasn't noticed. But his mouth is dry and the only thing he can articulate is a chocked sob. 

“How is he?” Sebastian asks, kindly stroking Max’s humid hair. “How are _you_?” 

Max croaks a strained laugh, “He is— stable, for now. Let’s hope the wound will not infect.”

Sebastian nods, a soft sigh leaving his lips before repeating an elusive “And you?” 

“Tired. Damn tired.” Max whispers. He closes his eyes for a second, eyelids trembling with an effort to stay open; it doesn’t feel right, to be that tired. Not when he has a stupid vigilante to check on regularly. Not when said stupid vigilante had the nerve to almost fucking die between his arms. He has this impromptu urge to scream. Let it all out, until his throat will be sore, until he won’t feel anything but the sound of his own voice, echoing. 

And he doesn’t know what it is, that is making him so on edge, whether it’s the doctor in him speaking or the fact he got too attached to Bull. Too close. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about it, because he is certainly not in the mood for some philosophical internal debate. 

“You should rest a little. You have done so much, Max.” 

Max lifts his gaze, meeting Lewis’s earnest one. He is sagged against the doorframe and Max weirdly realizes how quiet they actually are, those spandex-obsessed superheroes, with their fluttering steps that seem to be always above the ground. They move like cats, even when they are not fighting. 

Lewis smiles, but it doesn’t spread onto his whole face. He isn’t lighting up and that smile seems just a mechanic stretch of lips. Max knows he is trying to comfort him, to provide an hand when Max feels like falling, so he smiles back, just a faint twitch of his mouth.

“Thanks, but I have to check on Bull.” he mumbles; it sounds a lot like an excuse. And it’s not like he is lying per se, but the truth is that Max isn’t sure this time his medical abilities had been enough; he had faced something a little too great for him. He is terrified that he will lose that battle. 

And for what? A few hours of sleep? No, Max can take the exhaustion. He can even take the weight that seems to be crushing him from the inside. What he cannot take, though, is that stupid risk. 

“We will. First sign of distress and we will call you.” Pierre rebuts, crinkled forehead almost a contradiction to his own words. Max lets his eyelids flutter, brain clouded. Then, he pinches his cheek. 

“I can’t,” he slurs, stubbornly, and his shaking hands have turned into fists, hidden into the pocket of his jeans. “You won’t know when it is a real threat or when it is just a normal thing.”

Charles and Lewis both snorts, waving their fingers in the air, probably just to prevent themselves from actually trying to smack some sense in the density that is Max’s reasoning, in that moment. Max wants to ask them a lot of things, check if there are any other injuries he should be taking care of. He can’t see much, with the way his eyes keep shutting without his consent, but between the crack he managed to keep open, he notices more blood. It is blurry, though, because his eyelashes keep getting in the way, dancing onto his irises in shapeless shadows. 

“And you will not be able to do anything about it, whether it is a real threat or not, because you are fucking dead on your feet.” Sebastian snaps, voice terse and almost threatening, tone a little too high for those words to be considered just a suggestion. It resonates like an order and Max can’t see the face Sebastian is pulling but he is sure as hell there are some scrunched eyes and menacing stares involved. He tries to mumble some more weak protests, because he isn’t a surrenderer, but he really can’t say much, not when he knows Sebastian is right. He has always been his voice of the reason, after all. 

“Seb is right.” Lewis says, slowly, an hand curling around Sebastian’s hips to press him closer “Go rest. _Please_.” 

Sebastian looks at Lewis, soft affection flashing into his bright eyes before he leaves a fluttering kiss against Lewis’s temple. Max would have blathered a childish “ _sappy_ ”, if that wasn’t probably the worst time to go and crack some stupid jokes. 

“Fine,” he concedes at the end, making sure his objection toward that idea is well projected into that single word, “But I sleep next to him. And you will call me if he even breaths a little different.” 

Sebastian rolls his eyes, but he gladly pushes him toward the room, cold hands shaking Max’s narrow shoulders with a fierce intensity “Good boy. Now, take that armchair and sleep before I make you.” 

Max grunts and huffs a little more, movements theatrically exaggerated and feet dragging, with an annoying immaturity, onto the floor. The second his head hits the back of the armchair, though, he is out of the games, mouth slightly open and twitching fingertips scratching at the red fabric of the armrest. He dreams a lot of catastrophic scenarios. 

 

      -

 

Max Verstappen wakes up on his own, almost five hours later, rested enough that it doesn’t seem like his head is on the verge of exploding anymore. He keeps his eyes closed, just for a little longer, because he can hear Bull’s breathing more clearly in that way, when all his other senses are shut down and he is exclusively focused on that rhythmic cacophony of hisses. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, the infatuated Max processing reality for him, but Bull sounds more stable, less strained.

It takes him another two minutes, before getting up from the armchair, arms stretching wide above his head and cramped legs almost failing to support him. Bull is stil soundly asleep, the bandage on his stomach clean enough to let Max slightly relax his stance, tense shoulder loosing up under the evidence that Bull is finally -probably, _hopefully_ \- out of the woods.

His pulse is a steady drumming, against Max’s fingertips, and Max sighs in relief. 

The truth is, that he doesn’t know what he is really feeling, what he _should_ be feeling, in that instant, because his head is a chaotic mess, a tornado of emotions swirling all over the place, making him almost dizzy. Of course he is relieved, how can he not be, when Bull seems to be doing way better than he expected, responding well enough to medication it won’t probably take him more than a week to be back in full shape. Still, there is a lingering rage, fluttering against Max’s ribcage, compressing his lungs. 

They could have lost him. 

And Max knows. Goddamn he _knows_ , why Bull does what he does - he can imagine it, what is pushing him to go out every night to fight crime. He is not sure he would have personally behaved differently, was he the one gifted with powers. 

This doesn’t mean he cannot worry, though. That he can’t be tired of having to see his friends, and now Bull, get hurt, damaged and _broken_. He heaves another sigh, chapped lips straining into a thin line; there are a lot of words pressing onto his tongue, ready to be blurted out in sarcastic remarks and heated rebuts. He just clenches his teeth harder, swallowing his pride and his pain. 

He doesn’t held it against them; hell, he even _understands_ them. He has spent way too many hours talking with Pierre and Charles not to recognize that there is a reason to why they do what they do. A fire that is burning inside them, roaring until they let it out. At least they chose to do it the right way. 

Max has noticed it, that there is the same fire burning inside Bull.

He doesn’t get why he feels so angry, then. Maybe it is because this time was way more dangerous than the others or maybe because it wasn’t a problem he could have solved with a couple of stitches and annoyed snorts. 

Max doesn’t know and it’s driving him crazy. 

He is about to go back to sleep, at least to sedate that overwhelming storm in his brain, when cold fingers softly curl around his wrist. 

Max’s head snaps toward Bull’s; their eyes meet. Max can feel his face break into a spontaneous bright smile, because he may be angry, confused, _a mess of emotion_ s, but he sure as hell has every intention of showing Bull he is really ( _really_ ) glad he woke up in one piece. 

“How am I, doctor?” Bull snickers, voice hoarse and tremulous, words cut in half because it’s probably too difficult to pronounce them all, especially when his ribs are a fragile thing and even his heartbeat is almost too painful to bear. Despite that, it’s still there, Bull’s trademark smirk. It’s in his way of talking, tongue curving to make everything sound much more allusive. And it’s also on his face, lopsided and faint, almost invisible underneath the mask, but certainly unmistakable. 

“Still a stubborn self-sacrificing dummy, last time I checked.” 

Max's voice is a direct contradiction to the beaming sparkling that is lighting up his face, and while it is still very true that he doesn’t want to inveigh against Bull, he had to let it out, just for one second, that snappy side of him that was begging to be released. The one that wants to turn his back on that adrenaline driven life and move somewhere in the countryside, finally getting a shot at living the wounds-free life his mother would have wanted for him. 

“Should have put that in my last resume, bet I would have scored all the jobs.” Bull mumbles, and he doesn’t seem to be hurt by Max’s words, because his smile is still in place, securely plastered all over his bloody lips. Max rolls his eyes, snatching a sponge from his nightstand. 

“How do you feel, anyway?” he asks and his voice is a soft murmur now, nothing like the jerking and dry tone he had previously used. He is delicate and tender, when he lowers the sponge onto Bull’s face, gently starting to wipe it from encrusted blood and sweat. Bull closes his eyes, a content sigh rumbling all over his lips. 

“Like I’ve been shot.”

With the corner of his eye, Max spots him fidgeting under the covers; it is a gradual thing, that Max can witness only in the form of lumps jerking and moving behind the duvet. He doesn’t need to see it per se, though, to understand what Bull is doing. Lewis does it too, sometimes, when he sustains injuries way more dangerous than the ones he is used to. 

It is a sort of inventory, Bull prodding at his muscles to verify whether the shot had done those kind of damages from where there is no turning back. 

“You move everything all right?” Max enquires and he seems casual and indifferent, voice barely a whisper, but the truth is that he is holding his breath, eyes glued to Bull’s barely visible ones. The bullet hasn’t hit particularly relevant muscles or arteries, Max knows that because he has regularly checked that Bull’s blood was flowing steadily, no tissues lacerations to block its path. 

The rational part of Max’s brain (the one where he has stuffed all the medical notions he has learned over the years) is perfectly aware that Bull’s breathing should be indicative enough of stability. But he can’t help to let that uneasy feeling take the lead over his emotions; after all, even during the best of surgeries, there is always a small risk, a one percent possibility of complications. Considering their luck, he wouldn’t be very surprised if it turned out they were part of that one percent.  

Bull’s grin has stretched wider and cheekier. He even has the guts to go and throw a peace sign right into Max’s face, “All perfect.” 

Max nods, letting out a relieved huff, heartbeat stopping its frantic ride “Good. Anything else I should know?”

Bull’s face twists into a pensive frown, and Max is actually surprised he is considering his question with such care and dedication. He had expect an half-assed response that could have meant everything and nothing at once. Instead, he got this reflexive Bull that is making him kinda proud. 

“My ribs are killing me, and my back hurts too. My head is on fire, but the rest is fine.” Bull says, voice breaking with every painful wheezes he has to let out. Max lightly scrubs a little more blood from Bull’s trembling fingers. 

“Okay, we can work with that.” he mumbles, eyes crossed to focus solely onto Bull’s hand. 

And it’s not that he is avoiding the conversation from diverting onto anything that is not related to Bull’s medical condition, but, oddly enough, that is exactly what he is doing. He is accustomed to some contrite post-medication excuses, something for which Pierre and Charles were famous, even when they were just figuring out what they wanted to do with their powers, even before Lewis joined the _We’re really sorry, Max_ team too.

So, since he knows those moments usually sparkle whenever there is any sort of eye contact, he keeps doing his job, trying not to give Bull any chance of getting into that desperate, regretful mood. 

But Max should have guessed that things, with Bull, are always upside down; always straying from the classic path Max is used to. Because Bull doesn’t conform to that scheme and it’s while Max is all busy working on removing blood from his bruised hand that he decides it is Apologies Time. Hence, Bull flips his wrist, smooth and rapid, capturing Max’s fingers between his own in a loose twine. 

Max stills and his heart is beating so hard, now, that it feels like it is reverberating all over his body. Pushing its way trough his throat; stomping so fast, against his ribcage, that it sounds like an orchestra has decided to play a piece right into his chest. His lips tremble. 

“I know I had promised to be more careful, but I really didn’t know he had a gun on him.” Bull’s voice is barely a whisper, fingertips lightly tapping against Max’s white knuckles. Max blurts out a chocked grunt, but he doesn’t say anything. His feelings are all over the place, in that moment, and he is afraid opening his mouth would result into a mess, so he pushes Bull’s index finger with his own, in a weak attempt to lighten up the mood. 

“I am really sorry, Max.” Bull says again, tone so devout it leaves no room for more jokes; Max has never heard it on him, that grave and firm voice, a level of resoluteness coloring every word in a way that Max doesn’t feel like betraying it. 

Max sighs, and he knows there is no way out at this point. He can’t leave Bull like that, without giving him an honest answer; without telling him that truth that would probably ease Bull’s feelings a little and throw Max back into a tumultuous mayhem of doubts. He lifts his glossy eyes, pinning his gaze into Bull’s. His smile is a little sad, whilst he stretches on his face.

“Hey, I know. It comes with the job, doesn’t it? You do something dangerous, so the risk is there. Can’t deny it is very stressful, though, to see all of you always getting hurt.” Max confesses, in a small voice. His nose twitches a little and suddenly, just like that, Bull starts laughing. It’s as beautiful as Max remembered it, that laugh, even when Bull’s ribs are acting up and it sounds a lot like a chocked cough. 

“Your nose is cute,” Bull says, and it feels like the pain isn’t really there, not when he is talking around a broad smile. Not when there is mirth, dripping between every syllable. “And you are right. But still, I had made a promise to my favorite doctor.” 

Max snorts; he hasn’t really missed the comment about his scrunch being cute, he is just deliberating choosing not to dwell on it because his brain is still devastated from the whole philosophical debate about vigilantes, he doesn’t need more confusing things to overthink until his reasoning will spiral into a tornado of screaming synapsis, “I wonder what you would have done if you had actually despised me.” 

Bull still hasn’t let his wrist go, so Max moves the sponge onto his other hand, starting to drag it onto Bull’s bare arms. There isn’t much blood there, but Max keeps wiping nonetheless, his touch a fluttering tickle onto Bull’s warm, feverish, skin. 

“Anyway,” Bull says, seconds later, breaking the eye contact to follow the path of the sponge onto his battered body, “You are the first one to think so. Among my friends, I mean.” 

Max grimaces sympathetically. If Bull’s real friends know about his nocturnal vigilante activities, their conversations mustn’t be the funniest to held. He can only imagine the amount of recommendations and telling-offs Bull had to bear throughout these months. And he gets those friends, he really do, because being worried about waking up, one day, in a world where a friend was taken away by crime isn’t something that can be faced lightly. But he has come to terms with that possibility long ago and he is firm in his belief that keeping those superheroes -or vigilantes, or _whatever-_ from helping the community, from using their abilities for the greater good, will not be healthy for anyone. 

“You can’t really blame them, though. They are probably really worried.” Max says and it’s a bit unsettling, to have the duality of his opinion displayed like that in a simple conversation.

Bull lets out an awkward chuckle, fingers finally untangling from Max’s to carefully scratch near his ear, “Yeah, I know. I don’t like to make everyone so worried, it’s just—“ 

Bull doesn’t finish the sentence, he just leaves it like that, hanging into the air, as if he expects Max to get what he means. Max gently moves Bull’s hand to check whether that itchy spot meant blood or alarming rushes, but he notices nothing apart from the faint redness that Bull’s scratching has just left behind. 

“I get it, Bull, okay? You don’t have to explain it to _me_. I had been dealing with vigilantes long enough — I get what you mean.” and to be a little more convincing, Max squeezes Bull’s wrist between his frozen fingertips. 

A terse silence descends into the room, settling uncomfortably between them. It’s nothing like the cozy quietness that has accompanied them throughout their previous post-accident conversations. Bull’s eyes are avoiding Max’s; it’s crystal clear, because he keeps alternating his gaze between his fidgeting hands and the surely not so interesting ceiling of Max’s bedroom. 

And Max doesn’t want for him to feel uneasy, for them to be that awkward. He can imagine all the thoughts and lucubrations that are swirling into Bull’s mind, they are kinda reflected into his dull expression. So, he take matters into his own hands, plastering a mischievous grin on his plump lips before asking one of the many questions that have been tormenting him for weeks. Even since the first time they met, actually, in that cloudy Tuesday night. 

“Look, what’s your superpower, by the way?” he enquires, after a meaningful pause made of wiggling eyebrows and a little more smiling, sitting on the edge of his occupied bed. 

The change in Bull’s expression is drastic and so entertaining that Max has to stop himself from praising out loud his distracting abilities. He may not be able to do laundry, but at least he can stitch wounds like a pro and he is also able to divert people from overthinking their fears until a breaking point. Two-zero for the non functional adult Max Verstappen. 

“ _Eh_ , if I say it you will make fun of me,” Bull pouts and Max has to suppress a chuckle because two weeks didn’t make the magic, he still looks incredibly ridiculous with those curled lips and twisted cheeks. 

Max doesn’t assure him he won’t be laughing, though, because he is _that_ immature, and he just waits patiently. 

“Thanks for it, Max, I really appreciate you won’t make fun of me in any way, I really feel like you are so sincere” Bull blurts, almost offended, mouth that now has stretched into a somehow mocking sneer. Max has to let it out, that laugh that was pressing at the base of his trachea. Two seconds later and Bull is guffawing alongside him, forearm clutching his spasming stomach.

“Don’t make me laugh, Jesus. Aren’t you supposed to be the knowledgeable doctor?” he cries, voice getting suddenly broken by an uncomfortable cough that scrunches his whole face in a distressed scowl, to the point the mask is now covering up to his bruised chin.

Max lifts Bull’s torso slightly, ushering him forward until that coughing fit isn’t turned into a rasping breath that doesn’t sound particularly relieving but that, at least, is less alarming. It takes Bull another two minutes before he definitely calms down, breathing coming back to normal. 

“You okay?” Max asks, voice strangled and unsure. His hands remain clutched onto Bull’s arm, afraid that if he removes them, Bull will collapse again into a puddle of wheezes; and there isn’t really much that he can do, but if he stays like that, maybe he’ll move faster, in case things will spiral down. 

Bull gently lowers himself back on the pillow, a small grimace of fatigue dancing on his lips, “Peachy. Even though it feels like my lungs are on fire.” 

Max gets back in motion, tossing the sponge onto the armchair. He must admit it, he is really appreciating this comunicative version of Bull that actually voices his problems instead of making Max play a silly guessing game made of really specific questions and extremely vague answers.  

“Fine, you will tell me another day, if you want to be so secretive. Now, catch some more sleep, okay? I am going to make something to eat.”

Bull lets out an amused snort, then a cough and then a wheezy _something_ that could have easily passed as a hiccough more than an actual laugher (Max tries not to focus on how broken it sounds), “Do you really know how to cook?” 

“Wow, very funny. Yes, indeed. I am a great cook.” Max moans, index finger almost stabbing an accusation directly onto Bull’s shoulder.

“Now, sleep a little.” he adds, then, assertive. Bull raises his arms, palms exposed like he is willingly surrending to Max’s threats, no refusals and no protests. Doctor-Max can have this win, after all. 

Max huffs a satisfied hum, nose high up in the air. Then, when he already has an hand on the doorknob, he turns back to the bed. Bull has effectively adjusted into a sleeping position: head heavy on the pillow and limbs curled loosely. 

He looks so relaxed and _safe_ , with his mouth slightly open and the bandage clean from any sign of blood, that Max has to divert his eyes, skin almost vibrating. He feels it again, that tornado of emotions. Relief and anger, swirling around into his brain and irises. Making him fidgety. 

He draws a deep breath, whispering a “Bull?” he kinda hopes will go unnoticed. Bull is still awake, though, and he opens his eyes slightly, murmuring some gibberish nothing that could be interpreted as a _what?_

_“_ I won’t make fun of you, I promise.” Max says, voice gentle.  

The last thing he hears, before definitely closing the door behind him, is a soft broken giggle. It makes his heart clench. 

 

      -

 

It takes Bull exactly a week to get back on his feet; and they are pretty wobbly feet, no point in denying that, but Max is confident that the worst has passed and it won’t be long before Bull will be back to parkour his way trough the city in order to fulfill his quest of fighting crime. 

Not that Max is _that_ eager to send him back on the street, considering his history of impulsive decisions and terrible injuries, always way more serious and dangerous than the ones of his friends. But still, he has no intention whatsoever of going trough that internal monologue again, so he just keeps focusing on Bull’s current condition and the cooking and the stupid way he feels every time they talk about everything and nothing, conversation clicking into place like it does with no one else.

But _nope_ , Max isn’t willing on going trough _that_ train of thoughts either. He just tries to bury his head deeper into the credenza, hoping that his pasta haunt will stop his confused brain from trying to make him think about relationships and crazy, self-sacrificing vigilantes. With which he may or may not want to have a relationship. 

“Jesus, Max.” he whispers, cheek squashed against the wooden panel of his cabinet. It wasn’t particularly nice, of his brain, to go and throw that bomb at him. Not that it was unexpected in any way; Max isn’t blind, after all, he can sense the chemistry they have, at least when he is not too busy worrying about Bull bleeding all over the place, collecting wound after wound at an alarming speed. 

It feels genuine and _safe_ , when it comes to Bull. But Max is also very aware that he doesn’t know _anything_ about Bull, not even his fucking real name.

He is just standing there, on the verge of the two sides of Bull’s life. And _yes_ , he may know a little about his true personality, the one that has a funny remark always secured on the tip of his tongue and is foreign to Lewis or Pierre and Charles, but it is also true that he has always only seen him in the yellow mask. He doesn’t know anything about the person behind it, that alter ego that chose to go down the vigilante path who knows how long ago. 

Max knows _Bull,_ though. He has just spent the last two weeks of his life with that constant presence at his side, in his house. He is already used to be greeted with a smiling semi-hidden face whenever he steps back into his apartment, after a long day at the E.R. 

It is confusing.  

After all, Bull and the person behind Bull are just two sides of the same coin. Max is familiar with one side, but nothing forbids him, whether that relationship they have will actually go somewhere, to go and get familiar with the other side too. The one that has a life, maybe a job, or a college to attend; some passions, a past, a _family_. That stranger that feels like an acquaintance Max has met trough glazed glimpses and an entity he may have forged on his own, in his mind. 

And it’s not that Max wants to simplify things, because it is _huge_ , trying to build something with someone that introduces himself in half images and bitten sentences that may feel revealing but are actually just confused blurs of information. 

It’s just too much for him, feeling like there is something and then getting shut out again. Plus, it’s not like he will do something about that crush in the foreseeable future; so, for the time being, everything is under his control. 

“Hey, are you sleeping in the cabinet?” 

Bull’s voice startles Max and he jolts so quickly he ends up banging his head on the panel. _Hard_. He pulls out of the credenza, gently massaging the sore side of his face. 

“I was _reflecting_.” Max retorts, outraged to the point he even places a hand over his heart, while climbing down from the stool.

Bull laughs and there is nothing that makes Max more glad than hearing that laugh being back on its full potential, all roaring curves and deep, echoing booms. Bull looks much healthier, now; face slowly regaining its natural color, cheeks no more hollow holes. His eyes are sparkling, glossy brown stars wandering around the whole house. 

“Reflecting about what?” Bull enquires, curious, snatching a piece of bread from the countertop before throwing himself onto a chair. Max clicks his tongue, twice, but stays quiet; he made a promise to try not to go and reprimand the sick guy. Unless he has to scold him for not taking enough care of himself, at least. 

(And he doesn’t matter that he behaves the same way, whenever he is at Sebastian’s, because he is that hypocrite and he loves to be a walking contradiction.) 

“About how I actually don’t know anything about you.” Max blurts and it’s unplanned, sudden, too sudden, to the point even Max finds himself with eyes wide open in disbelief. 

So much for having everything under control. Max is starting to think that something really broke, into his brain-mouth filter, because it is not very nice that he thinks one thing but he ends up doing the exact opposite.

“What?” Bull mumbles, bewildered; there isn’t much that can be seen of his actual expression, because he is insisting on not taking the mask off, but from the curve his mouth twisted into, Max is sure that statement has got him kinda confused. 

“I mean, like,” Max is stalling, rambling incoherent words in an attempt to gain some time to come up with something, “you never told me what your super power is, for example. It’s been almost a week.” he concludes in a rush of relief, and if he wasn’t so pissed at his anarchic brain, he would have kissed it for coming up with a plausible excuse. 

Bull still looks a little bit perplexed, but it lasts shortly, his lips stretching into an amused smile. 

“You’re right. And you actually promised me not to laugh, so, I owe you that.” Bull says, standing up to take the empty plates Max was handing him. Max flashes him a thankful smile and throws a bunch of spaghetti into the boiling water. 

“So?” he prompts Bull, index finger gently poking his hip. Maybe he should think about other means to lighten the mood, because it is starting to become a little childish, all that sticking his finger into his friends soft spots. 

“Well, you have to know that I became a vigilante especially because of my… _ability_.” Bull explains, voice weary. Max has his back turned, because he is intently focused onto stirring the sauce, so he casually mumbles a _mh-mh_ over his shoulder. 

“No, really Max, it played a big part of my decision. Because I use it only when I have the mask. When I am Bull. ” 

At this point, Max feels like it would be much more polite to actually turn and look at Bull while he is talking. He didn’t think such an apparently dramatic introduction was needed. 

An half baffled laugh escapes from his lips, “Bull, you are actually worrying me.”

“No, it’s funny I swear. It’s just that I don’t want you to think I have used it while here,” Bull mutters, nervous, starting to roam around the kitchen to gather napkins and forks. They may not have a proper tablecloth, but they will not eat like cavemen.

Max rolls his eyes and it’s ridiculous, all that secrecy, “Just say it, you over dramatic _vigilante_.”

(If the last word sounds a little too mocking and emphasized, that’s just his own little, personal, vendetta.)

“Okay, I can manipulate time. But only five minutes before the event has occurred or after.” Bull blurts out in a rush, so fast that Max feels like he has just heard a bunch of totally random and mismatched words. The moment it finally clicks, in his brain, he has to press his lips extremely thigh, because a promise is a promise, but he has been hit by this sudden urge to start giggling like a three years old. 

“You can’t laugh!” Bull threatens, finger pointed menacingly toward an incredibly red Max that actually looks like he is a blink away from suffocating in his own laughter. 

“I…” Max breathes, deeply, his throat letting escape a weird guttural sound, “I am not—“ 

“You really are. Asshole.” 

Max takes a look at Bull’s partially offended face (because he can see it anyway, the phantom amusement ghosting all over his lips) and sobers up, a faint chuckle managing to break the shield of his self-control at the last second. 

“Okay, I’m sorry,” he concedes, hands high in the air, “But really, only five minutes? Maybe it is somehow useful?” 

“Mh? How so?” Bull retorts, turning back to setting glasses and bread slices on the table. It is unsettling, to think that it took him less than one week to get used to Max’s kitchen enough to know his way around the cabinets and the drawers; enough to navigate trough it as if he has always lived there, perfectly aware of where the forks are stocked, where he can find cereals and where he can go and steal Max’s secret stash of chips. 

Max doesn't really want to elaborate further on that image, because it appears so domestic it is feeding him hopes he can not afford to dwell onto. 

“Well, if you are hit or something. You can go back and prev—“ Max starts to say, matter-of-factly, but then he suddenly realizes it, that Bull could have prevented all the injuries he came sporting onto his house, in the most ungodly hours of the night, leaving both his apartment _and_ Max a malfunctioning mess. “You could have saved yourself, all these times! What the—” 

Bull doesn’t let Max finish, he just shakes his head, a corner of his lips lifting into a bittersweet grin, “Cannot, when I am hurt I loose control over my powers.” then his mouth softens a bit, while he says, looking directly into Max’s jittery eyes: “At least we have your superpowers to save the day?” 

Max knows that is a way to thank him, he gets it, because Bull is all tender and kind, while he murmurs those words. And his first intention is that of shaking an hand in the air, embarrassment way to great for him to form a proper response, maybe even dismissing the whole statement with a wave of his fingers. Instead he just finds himself blurting out an unintentional, probably pressure induced “ _cheesy_ ” that is actually solid proof something in his brain must have broken that time Lewis had convinced him to try some racing and he had ended up screaming the whole time, clutching his hand on the car’s door. 

Bull looks like someone has just punched him in the guts. Not even when he gets _real_ punches, he has such a stricken expression. Max feels like an asshole of epic proportions, and he knows he has to say something. Anything, before the silence will stretch long enough to start feeling even more awkward.

“But still, that’s a nice thing to say. Thanks.” he murmurs between twisted lips. He hopes it sounds genuine, because it is, it’s just that Max is going trough so many emotions, these days, he almost forgot how to properly react to every one of them. 

(Also, he doesn't want his traitor conscience to perceive that simple line as flirting. Being detached is better than being broken.) 

Bull’s face suddenly lights up in a dazzling smile and Max thanks whatever celestial being is up there that the pasta is ready because that will give him the chance to stop looking at those hypnotic delighted lips. So he throws himself at the rumbling pot, faking that his reed cheeks are just a consequence of the steaming vapor. At least Bull doesn’t have super hearing or something, because he doesn’t think it would have been a funny experience to explain him why it sounds like his heart is trying to smash its way out of his ribcage. 

“Anyway,” Max coughs and he is talking with his back directed at Bull just to feel a little bit more at ease, “You can prevent the others from getting hurt, or you can discover the masterplan of some bad guy, get back in time and win. There are many possibilities.”

Back to safe territory. Max is proud of himself.  

Bull huffs a laugh, “Yeah, no, you’re not wrong. It’s just…annoying. Having just five minutes.” 

“Well,” Max starts to mumble, train of thoughts going nowhere until he looks like he has made the discovery of the century, excitement and confidence steadily growing with every words he says, his hypothesis actually making some sense now that he presents it out loud “Can’t you like go back five minutes and then from there, go back another five minutes? That would give you ten minutes!” 

And if there is something good coming from that, other than the possibility that Bull may improve his powers, is that the surprise of having thought about _that_ has swept away Max’s embarrassment in the blink of an eye. 

He almost throws the fuming plates on the table, Bull intercepting them before Max could have destroyed their only hope of eating in an excited fit.  

“I could try, that’s actually a great idea. Thanks, _Maxie_!” Bull says, and he sounds so genuinely thrilled, expression mimicking the ecstatic one of Max, that the latter can’t help stretching his grin a little bit wider, prouder. 

The nickname didn’t escape his careful hearing, but Max doesn’t really have the energy to add anything else to the plate of _Things That Are Making Him Maybe Or Maybe Not Interested In Bull_. 

So he just gives Bull a thumbs up, hiding his face into his freshly cooked spaghetti. He hopes he can chew away this second rush of embarrassment and, maybe, also that stupid crush he can feel harboring in his traitor of a heart. But then Bull praises his cooking abilities and he smiles some more, in that way that makes him glow, almost as if the whole sun had decided it was time to compress its brightness right into Bull’s eyes. 

Max digs into the pasta again and realizes he is fucking doomed. 

 

  -

 

Max Verstappen should really be appointed as the Vigilante Whisperer, because he doesn’t know how he did it, but he has actually managed to persuade Bull in resting for at least a week and a half before jumping back into the Let’s Make This City Better wagon. Of course, he clearly should have spent way more time confined to bed, in order to be fully recovered, but still, Max takes it as a great victory. And maybe Bull was right, maybe he really has the uncanny superpower of smacking some sense into hot headed vigilantes. 

However, as much as he is certain he did a great job in keeping Bull safe for another seven days, he is almost as sure that Bull is on the verge of getting unbearably restless. He sees it in the way he moves around the house, always peeking out of the window, scrutinizing the city below, fingertips rattling against the glass in a grotesque rhythm. A grave _rat-a-tat_ that suspiciously sounds like a getting ready for the battle kind of march.

In fact, it is a rather warm Wednesday when Bull slides into the living room, already wearing the spare yellow suit that Pierre had brought him after the accident. His face is twisted into an unreadable expression, mouth thin and glassy eyes too busy skidding all over the room to actually meet Max’s. 

“It’s time, _mh_?” Max asks, and his voice is a strained laugh, syllables getting chocked by that something that is clogging his throat. Maybe is the lingering fear he feels when he thinks Bull will be out and about again, stubborn and reckless, ready to throw himself in the face of danger and unforgiving crime lords. Or Maybe he is just that he likes it, having Bull around; cooking together in that domestic way that scares the shit out of him and makes him think that somehow it could have worked. _It could work._  

Max hates being conflicted like that, an unstable funambulist trying to balance the selfish and the altruist sides of him. His wish to respect Bull’s needs, that fire that forces him to punch away his inner demons, versus his instinct to keep him safe, away from the danger of getting shot again. 

“Yep,” Bull says, and it gives Max a little hope, the fact that he doesn’t sound so sure as if he is actually uneasy at the idea of leaving.

Since Max still has some issues in understanding that not everything he thinks should be actually spoken out loud, he blurts out a rushed “You don’t have to do it, you know? The city will manage even without the great Bull.” 

Bull laughs, a giggling chiming that echoes throughout the room. Max flashes him a sad smile, getting up from where he was curled on the sofa. Their gazes meet and there is so much more, than what they are telling, that reflects into those watery irises. 

“Impossible. I am the best of the best.” Bull rebuts, inching closer, until his fingers manage to curl around Max’s shoulder. “This city is in great danger without me.”

Max snorts; it burns on the spot where Bull’s fingertips are grazing. He wants to groan, because that is every stupid movie cliché ever condensed into a single thought, but it also feels nice, so he just goes along with it, pushing a little into Bull’s touch. 

“Of course, all criminals are five minutes away from losing their shit.” Max says, forcing a strained laugh out of his dry mouth. It’s a coping mechanism, that one, his need of bottling up all the distressed scenarios, that are alternating into his ringing mind, translating into blurted jokes and the tendency of letting out the first shit he can think of. 

Bull cackles for real this time, actually amused by Max’s audacity, “So much for keeping promises, mh Max?” 

Max shrugs, and maybe he is a tad more sincere when he laughs along, pressing so hard against Bull’s palm that he almost has to stand on tiptoes. 

“Thank you, for your help, anyway. You really are an amazing doctor.” Bull says, seconds later. His voice is suddenly so earnest and pure that Max’s brain goes haywire, a million of different emotions colliding against each other, knocking the breath right out of his lungs. 

He doesn’t know what to say to _that_ , and he hopes Bull would read the answer into his beaming expression, into his sparkling eyes and grateful smile, but Bull’s face is completely turned toward the couch, teeth nibbling onto his lower lip. He looks so nervous it’s kinda cute. 

“ _Eh_ ,” Max wheezes then, gulping down air and distress in one shot, “Why are you making it sound like a goodbye? I am pretty sure you’ll be back. Hopefully not too often.”

And now Max knows he is on the second stage of his coping with stressful situations routine, because he is starting to ramble, babbling away his feelings, contradicting himself and rushing so fast he almost ends up eating away all the words, syllables mixing in an incomprehensible speech. Thought incoherently smashing together in a potpourri of apparently nonsensical sentences. 

“You know, you can drop by even if you don’t need a patch up, okay? It is even better, if you don’t come here bloody and hurt, making me all worried.” he adds, tense fingers intertwining in a painful notch made of white knuckles and sore tendons. 

Bull’s eyes are soft when they finally turn back to Max’s jittery ones, “I know. I’ll take the offer and you will be so tired of me, you’ll beg me to stop coming by.”

It feels like time has went still, crystallized in that instant, leaving both of them stuck in that micro universe of happiness and warm feelings. Max has the urge to spread his arms, soaking into the moment. 

He just smiles, though, and his cheekbones almost hurts, with all that smiling and laughing involved. “I have survived Sebastian’s ambushes, I’ll live.” 

Bull is hit by a sun ray, dim light making the yellow of his suit stands up. It still looks hideous, but there is something that makes Max think he really resembles an hero, in that moment. Chin high in the air, wide shoulders outlined against the dull maze of rooftops and aerials. 

“I have to go, the night awaits me.” they both know it is a sort of excuse, because it’s only three in the afternoon, but Max has to learn how to let him go, so he takes a step back, Bull’s hand falling from where it was sill bundled, on his shoulder. 

“Be careful. For real, this time.” he admonishes him; it has meant for it to sound as a joke, it ended up being a choked pray. 

Bull is already perched on the window’s frame, one leg dangling into the emptiness.

“I have a door, you know.” Max says, one last faint remark to try and tame the gnawing feeling that is kinda eating him up from the inside. Bull turns his head toward him: he is smiling, kind and open, the sun gently kissing what little of his skin is exposed. 

“Max?” he says, slowly, and he sounds tense while adjusting the grip of his fingertips over the wooden frame, “Call me Daniel.”

Max feels like he has been just hit. By a brick. Right into the face. His confused brain startles awake, trying to process what Bull has just said. Before he has any chance of opening his mouth, of saying something, _anything_ , Bull has already pushed his body out of the window, disappearing into a rustle of ruffled clothes and fluttery curtains. 

Max sticks his head out, eyes searching frantically, over the mantle of grey that is stretching in front of him, for a tiny yellow spot. Bull has vanished, though, swallowed by his so beloved city in the blink of an eye.

Max wanders toward his cellphone, dazed, feet dragging all over the floor almost of their own volition. It feels like he has spiraled into some extracorporeal experience, his uncooperative stricken brain already shutting down for the day. 

He doesn’t say that name out loud, he just lets his mind weighs it, accurately focusing on every letter. It echoes, in his mind. Again and again, in a continuous string and in a slow lullaby. Rushed, excited, then calculate and pondered, almost as if every single letter hides a secret.  

_Daniel_. It sounds like a promise. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I DID IT. I know it has been like MONTHS but I've started working and life got so hectic I didn't have time for anything, let alone trying to find a little moment for writing :(( but now that I've got used to it, I DID IT wow I can't believe it came out so long, this chapter ajfejehgsfjh and that i've finished the whole fic, to be honest! 
> 
> But I won't say much, hope you enjoy this 11k and + of fluffy dorks being in love because apparently that's what I do, fluffy fluff lmao 
> 
> If you see any error, please don't hesitate to point it out for me <3

It is oddly cold when Max steps out of the E.R’s sliding doors, at the end of his shift, heavy limbs begging him to hurry straight to bed. He checks his phone, fingertips pressing right against his sore eyes. It takes him a while before he manages to focus on the bright screen; he is glad to see there are no texts, just the black numbers of the clock marking three a.m in the morning. 

After all, no communication means no injuries. Ergo, no rushing back to his apartment, crushed by the dreadful feeling that being even a second late could result into a tragedy. He still has to breath trough a lumped throat, because one may never know, but he will take what he can. He just has to make his frantic heart aware of that decision, so maybe it will stop doing acrobatic somersaults into his ribs whenever he has the audacity to even _think_ about his friends being out there, doing their superheroes duties.  

His neck creaks painfully and Max lets out a soft sigh, misty breath dancing onto his lips before swirling away into the crispy air. He lifts his gaze, slowly, and he doesn't even know what he is expecting to see because the whole atmosphere feels weird, air shifting around him in a frightening way, making his hair stand up. There’s nothing up there, except for a bright constellation of stars. It reflects directly into Max’s blue irises, moonlight casting a silver kiss right onto his fluttering eyelashes. He blinks; twice. There are no clouds in sight, the sky a never ending expanse of deep blue; he stares at it for so long, entranced, it starts to see glimpses of a whole unexplored world, hidden behind those twisted shadows. 

Suddenly, just like that, with his gaze still lost among the twirling sky, Max finds himself thinking about Daniel. It is a blurry image, the one that flashes into his mind, because Max has never seen his entire face, just those red lips, almost always curled into a grin. He can picture it, how he must look. A puzzle of warm eyes and kind rosy cheeks, soft features that curve and turn, intertwining in a canvas of bright yellows and dim browns. A sunflower. The sun shining right against Max’s skin, scorching and intense. _Blinding_.   

Max feels overwhelmed, for a second.  

Even a little bit unsettled, because it’s still weird to convince his brain to stop thinking about the vague idea of Bull and start focusing on the real, tangible presence of _Daniel_. Not a concept, not an image that Max still hasn’t been able to grasp completely, but something certain, the feeling that there is a whole universe, behind that nickname, and Max has been invited in.   

It’s not like something has changed, since before, because Max still doesn’t know most of the things regarding Daniel. But there’s no wall anymore: Max may be able to _know_ him, if he asks. It makes him giddy, the idea he was trusted enough to be the only one to know his real name; the fact that Daniel is willing to let Max see all the sides of him, that is ready to let Max in. 

It’s not just a sterile doctor-patient with a side of chemistry anymore. It’s so much more, an act of blind trust, and Max doesn’t want to betray Daniel. To screw things up. 

The truth is, he still doesn’t know what this new revelation means in the grand scheme of their relationship, where it’s going to lead them. _That_ is surely a problem he will address later on, though, maybe when he hasn’t just spent the last three hours trying to cram three weeks worth of studying and his brain doesn’t feel like a pudding of emptiness.

There’s a strong gust of wind, blowing a freezing breeze directly against Max’s flushed face. Max startles awake with a shiver. It still lingers, that phantom sensation of warmth against his skin, the fluttering perception of summer and broken memories curving among splashes of moles and freckles. It doesn’t last long, though, because the wind slides its way underneath his jacket and there are tickling goosebumps blooming all over his arms.

Max grumbles his distress and tries to makes himself smaller, almost hiding into his windbreaker.

“It wasn’t so cold this morning,” he complains, a little bit petulant, between clenched teeth and pouty lips. In retrospect, he should have thought better, that afternoon, than wearing a mid-sleeved shirt with no jacket. And if he closes his eyes he can hear it clearly, the stern voice of Sebastian Vettel, echoing into his head, remarking that concept for him. 

After all, Sebastian doesn’t need to be there to scold Max for his inability to wear proper clothes and for his tendency of being great at saving other people’s lives and shitty at making decent decisions for himself. Because Sebastian has given him that speech so many times, that Max has basically engraved it in his brain. This doesn’t mean he has to follow it, he just has to know it’s there, as a sort of reminder for every time he decides to do something stupid, like for example wearing a truly inappropriate attire in the middle of autumn. 

He is still in front of the entrance, when he hears it, a whispered “How is 20 degrees not cold, Max?” that breaks the deadly silence with a whip. Max is not scared per se, because he knows that voice, it is probably the only thing he could recognize in a heartbeat, when it comes to Daniel. 

He gasps out loud, though, despite his brain telling him there’s no threat, nothing to be worried about. It caught him by surprise, when he was still swimming in his own mind, having tuned out the rest of the world. When he turns, Daniel is mischievously smiling, perched onto the balcony of one of the hospital’s many rooms.  

“Do you find it funny, to always scare the shit out of me? It’s the third fucking time, Daniel.” Max hisses, an hand pressed against his hip and breathing still an uneven waterfall of huffs and puffs. Daniel chuckles some more, landing on the concrete of the sidewalk with a smooth jump, so silent and swift the air didn’t even shift. Damn ninja vigilantes. 

“Sorry, it’s professional deformation.” 

Daniel looks so delighted in that night, eyes so bright they could be outshining the stars and no one one will notice the difference. Max snorts a relieved laugh, but he doesn’t turn his threatening stare into an amused one; he is not ready to let Daniel get away with almost causing him three heart attacks in the span of two weeks.  

“What are you doing, here?” he asks, then, irritation and the first sparkling of a laugh getting wiped away by the sudden realization that his presence could mean troubles and injured friend that need to be mended back together. Max is not sure that Daniel would have been so cheerful, if the reason behind his visit was that of an injury, but still, he has to ask it.

“Is anyone hurt?” his voice is tense, a ragged exhale of rushed words. There’s nothing cheerful about this night, now. Not when Max’s teeth are chewing onto his lower lips with such strength he can feel the flash getting morbid; not when his mind is suddenly buzzing back to life, a concert of disastrous scenarios alternating back and forth in a discordant harmony. Making him nauseous. 

Daniel gently closes an hand over Max’s bicep, his cheeky grin turning into a reassuring smile, “No one is hurt. I promise. I am here because of Sebastian.” 

Max frowns, bewildered, burying his hands at the bottom of his pockets to try suffocating the pressing urge to intertwine his fingers with Daniel’s, “What do you mean? What happened to Sebastian?”  

And he knows Daniel has just said no one was injured, Max has literally heard those four words get out of his mouth not even an instant ago. But his mind seems to have taken an independent rout, in that night, because he lets out a chocked grunt, his heartbeat speeding up, fueled by sheer anxiety and fear. He really has no choice, though, when it comes to Sebastian. Just the hinted idea that something could have happened to him, is enough to throw Max into a panicked fit. 

“Nothing, hey Max, _really_ — everyone is peachy. Including me, which is saying a lot.” Daniel murmurs, reassuring tone slowly lulling Max back to regular breathing. He gently leans into Daniel’s touch. At this point, he should start to take precautionary measures because sooner or later he would be the one needing medical attention for extremely high blood pressure and induced stress.  

“I’m here because Sebastian asked me to give you this.” 

Daniel is looking directly at Max, now, while he handles him a scarf. Max tilts his head, confused, until he realizes that Sebastian’s omniscience has reached a whole new level and he blurts out a strangled laugh, every sign of distress and worry finally leaving his poor, battered heart.

“He really knew I was underdressed for the weather.” Max chuckles, twisting the scarf around his neck. He feels warm and it’s not because he is actually wrapped into proper clothes. “When did he gave it to you?”  

Daniel smiles softly, an hint of nostalgia and envy prickling at the corner of his lips “We were at his and Lewis’s place, after the mission. He kinda knew, apparently.” 

“A reunion and I was not invited? _Rude_.” Max pouts, but it’s crystal clear that he is joking, because his eyes are sparkling, bright gems flashing into the night. He is glad Daniel has found them, somehow; that he is spending time with people who understands what is like to have an unmanageable screaming need, buried into the pit of the stomach.

And he is aware he really doesn’t have the right to talk about Daniel’s other clique of friends, because he doesn’t know them at all, but it is enough to know Daniel will always have welcoming arms to come back into, whatever happens.

“Yes, it was a cool members only party.” Daniel says, childishly snickering into his palm. Max shoulders him and stays silent; it feels safe and intimate, them bantering like that, the echo of their laughters rumbling all over the street, bouncing from building to building, until they curl directly against their thundering hearts.  

They walk together for a while: not even a word is exchanged but it still sounds like they are saying a lot.  

Max’s palms are sweating and it feels like going mad, because his skin is burning with excitement and freezing in fear. He wants to lean on Daniel, let his fingertips graze over the soft curve of Daniel’s forearm, touch the tip of his nose, wrap around the rebel messy curls that he can spot trough the hem of the mask, gently following the curve of Daniel’s ears. 

He bites his lips, eyes skidding all over the street, soaking in details he probably wouldn’t have noticed, wasn’t he trying to do everything _but_ focus on Daniel. His ears are ringing, fuzzy mind going trough an heated debate that feels like an incoming headache, because Max really hadn’t acknowledged, until that moment, that he really wants Daniel closer.

Everything had been pretty much platonic, Max too worried about Daniel’s medical condition to focus on anything else. And of course he knew he was harboring a crush, _hell_ he basically lived two weeks in a constant state of loving gazes, awkward flirting and fluttering heartbeats. This is the first time he feels it so overpowering, though, that scorching instinct to stretch his arm, to walk hands in hands, to touch. To feel. To perceive Daniel’s skin against his. 

Goosebumps against goosebumps. 

“Hard day?” Daniel casually asks, after another two minutes of reassuring silence. Max draws in a shaky breath, not trusting his voice to be steady enough to talk with Daniel without breaking into giggles or awkward moments filling chuckles. 

He’s not even thinking about how the whole thing looks like a domestic rom comedy, with the whole Daniel coming to pick him up from his shift and them returning to an apartment Max wish was actually shared. He’s definitely not indulging in that little fantasy and if he is a jittery, excited mess, that’s all on some body function, absolutely not because he feels like a teenager back in high school, dealing with his first crush. 

“Yeah, pretty much. I don’t know what’s up with people and falling from skateboards, today.” Max grumbles and it’s almost reassuring, that he has something real and tangible to talk about. That he can stop his spiraling mind from making up scenarios that will or will not ever happen. “I must have patched up something like five knees.”

“At least those guys were in amazing hands,” Daniel murmurs, a soft laugh blossoming on his lips. Max glances at him, a thankful grin pulling at the corner of his impatient mouth. The wind is a lot colder now, and when Max starts speaking, words get mingled with puffs of white steam. 

“Well, thanks. I am not happy to say I’ve had a lot of extra-curricular experience, though.” 

Max is expecting a snicker, a laugh, that booming whatever Daniel sometimes make whenever he is guffawing and gasping for breath at the same time — a sign Daniel got his stupid joke, because Max had meant it that way; he wasn’t being polemic, he didn’t want to get caught into another deep conversation the both of them have faced way too many times now. But the truth is, Daniel is not laughing. He is dead serious, Max can sense it in the way his shoulders have tensed, in the way his back is curled, underneath the stroboscopic puzzle of his suit. Daniel’s face is turned away from Max, his eyes hidden and unreachable, probably pinned against the grey, flaked painting of the umpteenth building they have just passed.

They all look the same, anyway. 

Silence engulfs them for a couple of seconds, and Max feels every single one of them ticking right against his skin. Tic-tac-tic-tac. A rhythmic crescendo of hypothesis and scenarios, alternating into his busy mind. When Daniel does finally speak, his voice is so low Max almost didn’t notice it: “You know, we are all really grateful and sorry, right Max? I mean, you don’t have to do what you do, except that…you do it. And without you it would have been a lot harder.”  

Max realizes that everything suddenly became more serious than the had intended. Because he had herd them, the shaky, guilty breaths Daniel had to take every now and then, while speaking. The distress making his syllables come out choked and cut, almost as if Daniel was in such a rush to get them all out, he forgot to finish up some of the words. 

Max has already been the addressee of those praises before, from Pierre and Lewis, _hell_ even from Sebastian himself, during cold winter nights and scorching hot summer evenings. He has heard them whispered in gratitude and then screamed in the middle of a fight. He has heard them murmured in a mayhem of tears and relief but also spitted between clenched teeth. Daniel had said them too, before, during those two weeks of recovery, in the dark silence of their lonely nights, head too smushed against the fabric of the sofa for Max to fully understand everything it was being said (and the truth is, Max didn’t get everything Daniel was saying, in those occasions, probably getting just a glimpse of his drawled sentences, a shadow of promises and apologies whispered way too gravely; but apparently, Max is developing a special superpower when it comes to Daniel: he will call it the I Apparently Only Hear What Daniel Says No Matter The Circumstances superpower. He is so fucking doomed). 

He has heard those whispered _thank you_ almost a billion times. And still, his heart misses a beat, hands becoming sweaty appendages that Max really doesn’t know where to put or what to do with. He settles for the pockets of his windbreaker, buried so deep they start to feel numb. 

(At least, in that way, he can suffocate the urge to roll his thumb all over Daniel’s frowning face. Or what he supposes is a frowning, distraught face, because Daniel’s whole body is almost turned on the opposite side of Max’s.)

And it’s not that he hates sincere compliments. It’s more like that he never knows how to respond to them; never knows what’s the right thing to say. He feels this enormous pang of gratitude and emotion right at the base of his stomach, but he doesn’t know the words to properly convey that pandemonium of feelings. A _thank you_ isn’t enough; and maybe a smile would have been, but Daniel is still too busy studying the architecture of every single building on the side of the road. Max wishes he could see the ocean of feeling that is being swirling right into his shiny, watery eyes. 

Max’s apartment is coming closer now and the silence feels so dense, Max is almost curious to see if his scalpel would cut it in two. Usually he works well, under pressure, brain going numb enough to let him trust his guts, for once; but right now, his mind is way too awake: it’s probably too busy fighting Max’s will and giving birth to a jungle of cheesy lines he will never, _ever_ , say out loud. Traitor. 

Max starts to recognize details of his neighbor and with every step, he can perceive a mounting frustration punching its way trough his almost-empty stomach. He is sure that, just to say _something_ , sooner or later he will end up screaming.  

“Look,” he blurts out, after another two minutes, the outline of his building now visible enough to make him stressed that night will end up with Daniel dropping him off and him not being able to say what he really wants to, “I don’t know what to say when people give me compliments?”

Max tries to steady his voice, but he fails miserably and at this point he prefers Daniel to see him like this, unsure and vulnerable, instead of making him believe to be some sort of unconcerned, careless, dickhead “Like I am _that_ thankful I get stressed, okay? Laugh at me, go on, do what you want but it’s true.”

Then, as a second thought, even thought he feels it won’t be enough, he say a soft “But still, _thank you_.” that almost got lost behind the rumble of a passing car. 

Max doesn’t feel accomplished, he doesn’t feel like he had actually managed to truly express his emotions. He wishes he could touch Daniel, let his frozen skin do what his words apparently can't. Daniel is smiling tough, gaze finally turning back to focus on Max’s. 

“I though I had upset you,” Daniel murmurs, voice barely a whisper. It’s intimate, what they are doing, their tones so low, as if the world isn’t ready enough to witness that poignant exchange of information. As if they are getting closer to each other on tiptoes and inaudible steps. Dancing into a darkness that doesn’t feel like one anymore, silent cat-like steps toward a peak of light. A window of possibilities that has just widened in front of them. 

“You didn’t.” Max says, assertive for one brief moment. Then he is back to a confused mess while he bubbles pacate excuses, even though he can see an understanding softness flashing trough Daniel’s almost hidden features, “I am just — tired, at the moment. Really tired. And I can’t find the right words, _goddammit_.” 

Daniel shifts his weight and now he is all over Max’s personal space, a move so swift and appealing Max doesn’t even have time to curse him for his damn ninja reflexes. He is probably too busy admiring the way Daniel’s body has swirled, sinuous and gracious; _that_ he can admit it, at least in the privacy of his traitor mind. 

Daniel’s eyes are a sparkling and encompassing puddle of chocolate brown. They are sparkling, the lights of the meagre street lamps, scattered all over the street, reflecting right into them. His hand floats in the crispy air of the night for a fragmented second: he seems almost unsure. Conflicted. Then Max feels a soft, scorching heat pressing, lightly, right against his fingertips. They intertwine their fingers. It’s delicate, it’s innocent, it’s natural; it’s nothing and everything at the same time.  


Max’s heartbeat picks up speed. It tumbles, falls silent for an instant and then it’s back to racing, literally galloping its way trough Max’s trachea. He had fought that intense need for so long, during the half hour they spent together, that now it is incredibly freeing. To finally touch, feel. Skin against skin, Max can almost sense Daniel’s thoughts rumbling trough the nervous twitch of his hands.

It’s true, that he is even more of a nervous mess now, heartbeat thumping so loudly it sounds like the only noise in the whole boulevard. Somehow, though, it also feels relaxing. Almost as if Daniel is managing to erase the tension of this whole week just with that single, fluttering touch. Max’s shoulders loosen up, his back slouches; it’s not that difficult anymore, it’s not that hard anymore. 

It’s all he had hoped for. And maybe, even something more. Because Daniel’s hand is as soft and warm as Max had imagined. And it feels so right, so damn right, with their pulses racing against each other, wrist against wrist. Thump against thump. 

Daniel wiggles his fingers lightly and Max is a giddy mess. It tickles and he hides another smile against the red wool of the scarf he had carefully wrapped around his neck. 

They walk like this for the remaining 100 meters. Daniel’s thumb pressing reassuring squeezes against Max’s. They don’t need to talk, at this point. 

When they reach Max’s front door, and Daniel softly brushes the back of his hand against Max’s honey curls, it really feels as if they have absolutely no worries in the world. 

  

-

 

Despite being always on the verge of a breakdown, despite surviving for weeks on a three hour nap and despite being always so busy he doesn’t even remember what me-time is, Max Verstappen doesn’t really like having free days. Whenever he is given one, at the hospital, he usually uses those twenty-four hours to cramp every extra lesson he can think of; except for the fact that he can’t do that now. Not when he has just finished all his courses and the only thing he has to think about is the upcoming final project. A project that, for his great despair, isn’t due for the next four months.

So, in that chill autumn Wednesday morning, when the sky is of a menacing dull grey and heavy clouds are passing promises of rain, Max Verstappen finds himself at home, without any plans on sight, hands full of freshly washed laundry. It’s almost surreal, the silence that is descending into an house that only the prior night hosted a noisy mini birthday party for Charles. That only the previous week was the stage of another medical emergency. 

Now that he is in it alone, it feels almost inhabited, the ghost of what a proper house should actually look like. Max hasn’t really noticed it, until that moment, how empty it looked. 

And it’s not like he had put much effort into furnishing that apartment, not with the side job he does with his friends that takes up half of his time and always results into weird blood stains scattered here and here. To be fair, the house isn’t ugly per se, it’s just that Max had always bought mismatched furnitures (reading: what was the cheapest on the menu) and when he couldn’t find a replacement for some battered furniture, he just didn’t. So, in the wall adjacent to the door everyone can see the halo of a credenza that isn’t there anymore; without taking into consideration, he had to throw away every carpet he had previously owned (now even the _thought_ of getting a carpet makes him feel like he could get it somehow dirty and encrusted with blood).   

He isn’t sad about that, to be honest, and he does like the way his house looks. It’s just that in that instant, when his thoughts are left free to roam and pry, it feels a little too empty. And a little too lonely. 

Before he has time to shake that feeling from his arms, the phone he had stashed at the bottom of his jeans’ pockets starts to ring. Max answers quickly, without even seeing who was actually calling him. It is unlikely that his medical help is needed, because it’s still 10am in the morning and his friends maybe a little stupid but not _that_ stupid. Still, throughout the years he has learned to never take things for granted. 

It is a tiny bit nervous, the _hello?_ that he says, every single letter rushing out of his mouth in a strangled breath. 

“Max! My friend, my savior! Hello!” Daniel’s loud and eclectic voice reverberates right into Max’s ear, together with the laugh he has just blurted out. It’s weird, to feel that voice twisted in a mechanical, and unnatural way, reception coming and going, cutting his words in two. 

“Daniel?” Max tries, unsure, because he knows they had exchanged their phone numbers already, but he didn’t think Daniel would actually call him. Although, in retrospect, he supposes it is a little more respectful to _call_ people rather than to burst into their houses, uninvited and using windows as their main entrance.

(Max has to admit that, since he realized everyone prefers the smaller window near his kitchen door, he usually leaves it open). 

Daniel chuckles, Max doesn’t like how it sounds trough a phone. He remembers that chuckle, rumbling right against his cheeks, them so close their breathes could almost intertwine. He lightly touches his face, fingertips pressing against the hot flash; he can recollect the feeling of Daniel’s breath, how it exploded, right into that spot. How he felt the vibrations of Daniel’s laugh, against his lips, his eyes, his ribcage. 

He heaves a sigh, plopping onto the sofa and placing the phone between his shoulder and ear, ready to fold some laundry. Better to keep busy, he can’t really be trusted anymore, when it comes to being around Daniel. 

“Of course it’s me. I just wanted to give you an heads up that tonight I am going out without the others. Personal stuff. Don’t know if I’ll need a patch up later on but you know, we had discussed it…” Daniel says, voice stern and open because he almost always is, _open_ , at least when Max is concerned. And Max maybe doesn’t know much about his past or what he does when he isn’t wearing yellow spandex, but it still feels like they know each other pretty well. It still feels like Daniel being his true self, in front of him. 

The heads up is a new thing they are trying. Since Daniel doesn’t often go with the group, busy with his personal crusade, Max has suggested they warn each other. Just in case, so he will be ready for anything Daniel and his inclination for being in the middle of the battle and for serious injuries will throw at him. He doesn’t like the feeling of Daniel out there, alone, heart deeply immersed in this war he is parading,collecting victories and defeats without anyone to cheer for him or console him. Max wants to be there for him, somehow — someway. He doesn’t demand to be made aware of everything, to be briefed of every single thing, especially the reasons why Daniel does what he does. But sometimes Daniel will text him a post-mission emoji; and Max has learned to decipher them, throughout the days: the cowboy emoji is for the victories, the clown one is for when the mission has spiraled downhill. Then, there’s Max’s favorite one: the dancing lady emoji, the one Daniel uses whenever his secret night activities ended up without any kind of blood or injuries involved.

It’s not just a matter of being aware of Daniel’s safety, but somehow it’s Max’s way of thinking about him. Of making Daniel aware he _is_ thinking about him.  

And maybe, just maybe, Daniel will think about him too.

Perhaps knowing to be in someone else’s mind, being aware of the fact someone is worrying about him will make him more careful, more reflective. It is a temporary solution, anyway, until Max will master up the courage to have a Discourse (capital, because it is important to Max) with Daniel, to make him understand doing things alone will only end up in him getting badly hurt. Asking for help isn’t a sign of vulnerability. Daniel doesn’t need to do it alone, to shut out people. He knows Daniel does it so nobody will get hurt in the process, but him, and Pierre, Charles, Lewis — they chose that life. They chose it willingly and he just wants Daniel to get it, that there are friends ready to go out of their way to help him. 

That someone cares for him that much.  

Max doesn’t know if Daniel feels lonely sometimes, because he doesn’t like to make assumption about people. But if he does, Max just wants to show him the truth.  

“Yeah,” he murmurs, then, and he hopes the long pause didn’t seem so weird, “Got it, I’ll stay alert. And I’ll think about you.” 

It hits him with the force of a brick, thrown directly against his stricken, baffled face — the implication of what he said. It wasn’t a casual “i’ll be ready if you call me” it was a full “please don’t do anything stupid I will stay here and mope about your safety until you call me”; a giant semi declaration Max has just let it slip from his now trembling, worried lips. Suddenly, he stops folding old t-shirts and he is glad no one is watching him because his whole face has lost color and he looks like he has just seen the ghost of Old Christmases coming to visit him just to show him all the gaffes he had made since the moment he had met Daniel. 

It takes him a bunch of seconds to get over the initial shock and when he does, it kinda doesn't feel like a gaffe anymore; so yes maybe he _is a_ little panicked, whatever, but maybe he is also a little grateful his stupid brain had taken once again the lead. Maybe it was time to take a step ahead, to be a little bit bolder and more impulsive.   

(He wasn’t actually, he was just too distracted to make his brain behave properly, but prep talk is what will get him out of a will-he-reject-me panicked fit.) 

Daniel doesn’t crack a joke like Max would have expected from him. He is probably smiling, though, because the next words he says are all curved in a weird way, as if he is pronouncing them with the mouth stretched wide. Max hopes he is smiling brightly. 

“Thanks, Maxie. I’ll think about you too.” he says, and it feels genuine. Honest. Not just a funny reply to Max’s statement. But maybe a statement of his own; Daniel taking a step ahead too. 

Max wants to suffocate his face right into his laundry basket. Instead, since now he has somehow matured into a person that doesn’t behave like a thirteen years old boy with a crush, he just exchanges goodbyes with Daniel, proceeding then to scream for a long ass minute into the shirt he has just folded. 

After he emerges, red cheeks and watery eyes, the shirt he is holding is so crumpled he has to fold it again.

 

-

 

Max Verstappen is bored. He is actually, legitimately, honest to God, _bored_. He isn’t used to that feeling, that sensation of having no scheduled meetings, no shifts, no chapters to try to digest together with the usual pre-cooked dinner. And most of all, no selfless defenders of the night to sew back together.

He snorts, lightly tapping the screen of his cellphone. It lights up, turning half of his face into a shapeless blue shadow. There are no incoming calls; no texts either. Another day, he would have been ecstatic to know none of his friends was involved into some life threatening situation. Now, he would love to hear from someone; certainly not if it means they are someway hurt, but _hey_ maybe Max Verstappen does exist even outside of stressing, adrenaline induced rendezvouses. 

He lets out another distressed huff, harder than the previous one; stronger. A little bit of dust flies around in the static atmosphere of the living room, whirling lazily in front of the turned off tv. He doesn’t know what he is hoping for, if to be heard by his friends, friends who are probably miles away and hopefully not being currently dragged into another fight, or if he is hoping some celestial being will listen to his complains and do something about this unknown and unsettling boredom he is forced to experience. 

Despite the train his thoughts are derailing into, when a gentle knock is heard somewhere in the general direction of his windows, Max’s body goes unnaturally still. Usually, when his friends have to use what he calls “the backdoor”, they never knock; they just unceremoniously barge into his house, uninvited and possibly harboring internal bleedings the size of California.  

He doesn’t know if, suddenly, one of them decided to be a polite, decent human being. What he is sure of, though, is that he can’t predict what he’ll be dealing but there’s no way a thief would ever _knock_ before robbing an house. So he breathes deeply, grabbing a book from the small table besides the sofa — just as a precautional measure though. Of course he doesn't think a possible murderer will ask permission to come into his house, but honestly Max feels like spiraling these days and he doesn’t even know what he should think of the whole situation. He isn’t feeling prone to thinking. Better safe than sorry, after all. 

He paddles toward the window with calculated steps, realizing that one, even though now he has way more free time on his hands his house is still an untidy mess (reading: a post apocalyptical battlefield made of discharged clothes and napkins he didn’t even remember he had used), and two, the incriminated window is the same one he keeps open for the Fake It Until You Make It group of friend he had stupidly chose years ago. 

When his eyes adjust to the dim light, he catches glimpses and bits of a shadow, perched right against the fire escape stairs. It is yellow and bright, so bright Max feels like the sun has risen once again just to bless their encounter. He smiles, a little cheeky and a little nervous, because apparently he can’t stop being a flirty, queasy mess when it comes to Daniel. 

He gently pushes the window’s frame, letting the cold air rush into the house, slapping him right into his stupefied face.

“Hey,” he whispers, pinning his elbows against the windowsill. Daniel is still a shapeless confused idea, in that moment, and Max can’t really see much, because the lights in his house are all turned off and that neighbor isn’t particularly known for proper illumination. He does distinguish Daniel’s feet dangling into the dark abyss of the unknown, though, and the outline of a smile. He doesn’t seem hurt in anyway. 

Just to be a little more sure, Max asks, voice unsteady with a worry he can’t seem to be able to shake off at any encounter, “You all right?”

“Wonderful,” Daniel replies, foot stretching wider to playfully tap against Max’s forearm. “I am feeling really good, Max.”

Max chuckles, head sticking out for another two millimeters. “I can sense it. Something good happened?” 

Daniel lets out a dreamy sigh that resonate in the whole alley. Max laughs openly, this time, because it’s refreshing, to see Daniel like this. Relaxed, playful - and not in a _sorry you almost watched me die so I’m making jokes to light up the mood_ kind of way. His shoulders aren’t tense and rigid anymore; Max bets his eyes are probably two big shining suns, right now, with flashes of contempt swirling all over his sparkly irises. 

“Not particularly,” Daniel says, and even his voice sounds higher, louder, “I am just — happy.”  

Max’s heart is on the verge of exploding. It makes him feel warm, to hear that, to know that Daniel is in a good mood, that something beautiful may have happened to him. The weather is freezing, against his cheeks and bare arms, but to Max it feels like he has been projected right into the middle of August. A whole snow storm may crash into his tiny apartment and Max would still feel that warming, ecstatic feeling crawling all over his stomach. Making him float into a personal bubble of sunshines and only positive sentiments. 

“I am really glad.” he murmurs, hoping the sincere smile that is twisting his mouth will be recognized and heard as such, “Do you want to come in?” 

Daniel’s laugh is unexpected, but Max snickers along, just because he can. Just because suddenly, he is a bit giddy too. Nothing happened to him, literally nothing, since he has just spent the day moping the lacks of things to do. But it’s the fact Daniel chose to tell _him_ , that is making him all fuzzy and excited. Daniel could have involved him another time; but no, he had willingly decide to parkour his way trough the city just to share his happiness with Max. 

Max doesn’t have a name for the emotion that is rumbling and tumbling all over his heart, but for once he is not sorry to be in a loss of words. For once, not being able to explain every single thing going through the bermuda triangle of his mind-heart-stomach will not be an issue. He can sense it in the way the air has shifted, around them. In the way Max is able to perceive Daniel’s smile without even having to see it. It’s a vibe, the sensation the world around them has suddenly disappeared, leaving room only for the two of them. 

“What about,” Daniel starts saying, elegantly descending right into Max’s windowsill, his tone covertly suggestive “you come with me, this time?” 

Daniel is now directly perched onto Max’s window, an hand firmly gripping the wooden frame and knees so bent forward they are almost pushed against Max’s chest. Max has a perfect visual of Daniel’s face now (as much as he can see when Daniel still has his mask on, anyway), and he looks _radiant_. 

There is something different about him, even though Max’s understanding is still limited by all those meters of black cotton. He wishes Daniel could take one lesson or two from Charles, who just loves to wear those tiny masks that end up above the nose. But no, of course Max couldn’t have it easy, of course he had to begin a whatever that is with Mr Secrecy, also known by his friends as _let’s wear a balaclava even when I go to sleep_. 

It hadn’t been an issue until now; not really. And the fact is, Max doesn’t want to see Daniel’s face per se, he just wants to be able to touch what’s underneath all that black fabric. It is relatively new, that feeling, a sort of need that Max has started to harbor since last month (or maybe the last two ones, Max tries not to keep track of his emotional status). Being able to see every feature of Daniel is honestly a plus, more of a gift, because what Max really wants is to be able to stretch his fingertips until his whole hand will be spread onto Daniel’s face. He wants to follow his profile, index running trough those high cheekbones, loosing itself around an ocean of curls, until it will reach the line of his lips. Max would take it slow, then. Lightly brushing the soft, red skin. 

Trying to convey, with that feather like touches, everything that his mouth had kept secret until then. 

“So,” Daniel chuckles, and Max notices his eyes are focused on Max’s lost, detached expression, “Are you coming or not?”

Max takes Daniel’s left hand, while the other is busy grabbing the first jacket he manages to reach without looking and driven by the impatient rush of getting closer to Daniel as soon as possible. When he is completely lifted out of the window, securely anchored all over Daniel’s slim body, Max realizes that the whole city is stretching wide beneath their dangling feet and the only thing keeping him alive is the sheer force of a faceless vigilante he has learned to trust throughout the months— his head spins but he still feels like he is on top of the world. 

 

-

 

Max has never really been a fan of heights. Especially when considered that aforementioned heights are experienced with a side of swinging, only five fingers as a support and no stability whatsoever, since Daniel is basically a dangling little butterfly, running from a balcony to another. Max feels a little sick, to be honest, and he bets his complexion has turned into an unhealthy greenish color. He can also feel the dinner he just had starting a Salsa Contest right in the middle of his esophagus.

Everything is bearable, though, from the nausea to the dizziness that is ruffling his mind, because when he is not feeling like puking he can perceive the night breeze twisting and turning around his hair, gently prickling at his feverish skin.

The city, beneath his feet, is a maze of fleshing lights; Max can’t distinguish much, not with his fear taking a lead over his eyes, but he has spotted a couple of fluttering curtains, bits of people’s conversations, his shaky irises skidding all over fragments of different lives. He wonders if this is what Daniel gets to experience every night. 

He doesn’t ask where they are going, he just adjusts his grip over Daniel’s shoulder, praying that the maze of building will remain as far away as possible.

 

-

 

It’s a rooftop, the special place where Daniel finally lends after another two minutes of risky parkour moves and weird verses Max didn’t think Daniel was capable of doing. Max starts to breath again the second his feet hit the concrete and he manages to actually feel a resemblance of stability; just a resemblance, though, because his legs are still wobbly toothpicks and he has to press his palm against the freezing wall to steady his steps. 

“You good?” Daniel casually asks, throwing a delighted look over his shoulders. Max can perceive him disposing something on the ground, but he is still too dizzy to properly distinguish his own thoughts, let alone what the bloody hell Daniel is doing. Also, the dim lights popping here and there, all over the city, are really not helping his cause. 

“Oh yes, of course. Who doesn’t want to take a midnight stroll trough balconies. Dreamy. Also, I am really happy I get to see all of you after this whole parkour stuff is over with.” Max mumbles, heavy breathes slithering their way trough his words. It sounds more like an hiccuped sentence and he bets Daniel hasn’t understood anything of what he had just said, with the wind whirling so loudly around their ears and his words being a chocked mumbo jumbo of letters. 

But apparently, Daniel has developed his exact superpower, because he seems to have heard Max loud and clear; at least if his laugh is a good indication of it. 

“Yeah well, I would pay to see you act as a superhero.” Daniel snickers, stuffing his head into a bag Max hadn’t noticed before. He emerges two seconds later, continuing with whatever he was doing before. Max has no strength to ask questions, in that moment. 

“You just want to see me in a spandex suit of dubious colors.” he snorts then, a dismissing hand waving in the damp air, frozen fingers too rigid for the movement to be as smooth as Max had pictured it. Daniel’s laugh is louder now, stronger than the rumbling wind, hitting Max right into the chest. It feels warm, despite the weather being like minus three degrees. “So you can make fun of me like I did with you. And Lewis. And even Charles and Pierre.” 

“Well, Charles and Pierre are too sober to be part of our group, to be honest. White and red? _So basic_.”

Max smiles, honest and full, lips stretched so wide it looks like he is trying to engulf the whole town. And it’s not because Daniel has made such a good joke, but because he has referred to them as “our group”; Max is ecstatic Daniel feels like that, like being part of _something_. Having someone that not only understands his sentiment, but also helps him navigate trough it. All of them, together, trying to keep up with their personal battles, without being lost in the meantime. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, though, he just basks in the warmth that thought is spreading all over his heart. 

“Yeah, you know, if I was born with superpowers I would have probably wore a blue suit. I think it complements my eyes.” Max admits, finally steady enough on his feet to stop hugging the column like his life depends on it and to start wobbling toward Daniel. He really wants to see what is making him so busy and focused. 

“Why are you all so basic? I mean _gold_ , Max! Think of the opportunities.” 

Max grimaces because _ew, thanks but no thanks_. He is not a gold-spandex person, he’ll leave that to Sebastian so he and Lewis can be the vigilante version of Bonnie and Clyde. In spandex. _Gold and silver spandex_. He voices that thought and he is extremely glad he did, because not only Daniel is nodding along, but he is also laughing so hard Max feels the vibration of his amusement reverberating right against his thundering chest. 

“So, another color? I’ll banish the blue.” Daniel says once he has stopped rolling all over the dirty floor. Max snorts, an hand on his heart, and he spots a peak of red flashing in his peripheral vision. 

“I don’t know? I am a basic person too, I’d probably go for red.” _lie_ , Max has never thought about it, he was just inspired by what he saw like three seconds ago. Then, because he doesn’t like doing things in that half-arsed way, he proposes a more vibrant: “Or you know, red and blue!” 

Daniel turns around completely now, looking at him with such an intensity Max can feel a blush starting to creep around his cheekbones. He clears his throat, a little embarrassed. Right now, this phantom suit is not the only thing being tomato red; his face is a little fluorescent, and probably even the tip of his ears are glowing in embarrassment. Thank God he has hidden them under the cap of his sweatshirt. 

“Yeah, It would suit you well.” Daniel admits candidly, smile so bright it is perfectly recognizable even immersed around that tornado of darkness. 

“What are you doing, anyway?” Max enquires after a while. He is a little bit unsure, because that silence that had descended upon them was so calm and relaxing he felt like getting asleep, lulled by the sweet whistle of the wind and the steady breathing of Daniel. Wasn’t him still standing, he would have probably followed his instinct; maybe the low temperature could have been a problem, but to Max it didn’t matter. That peaceful instant of stars and freedom was like a gentle hug around the back. 

“This,” Daniel says, stepping aside to allow Max to proper understand what _this_ actually meant. And the truth is, Max wasn’t prepared at all; he had seen many things in his brief life and when he says many he means it, especially because in that poignant word he hadn’t even included all the medical stuff he has experienced since taking a side job as the _Friends’ Patcher_. 

He bites his lip, trying not to smile like a thirteen old boy who was just noticed by his crush. 

“That’s just a towel on the floor.” Max murmurs and his cheekbones almost hurt with the effort of not laughing right into Daniel’s face. He kinda knows what Daniel was trying to do, and he can’t say he is not moved, it’s just that it’s a bit funny, that it took Daniel almost ten minutes to, you know, lie a checkered towel on the ground. “But it is a very beautiful towel nonetheless.” 

“Very funny, Max Verstappen. There are chips, in the bag. And,” Daniel is smiling too, because apparently they have this weird thing going on where they could say the most blatant thing and the other would read right between the lines, getting all the truth in a glance, “ _beverages_. No cooked meal, I have a town to protect at night.” 

Max sits on the towel, playfully pulling at Daniel’s hand to make him sit too. They are close now, so close their misty breaths became one giant ethereal puff of white. Max gently puts his head on Daniel’s shoulder. He tries not to let his brain roam free, because he doesn’t want to get all paranoid about that simple touch; he really can’t do much for his spiraling heart though. He hopes he can manage to get a medical check up once that night is done, because he surely is on the verge of an heart attack. 

“Having a town to protect at night didn’t allow you to learn how to cook your own meals?” Max snickers and he feels Daniel’s hand coming to rest onto his side. It is comfortable, and safe and probably everything Max has ever wanted. He could really get asleep now, the city as his bedroom and Daniel’s arms wrapped around him to lull him into oblivion. 

“Grateful old ladies often give me free meals.” 

Max wants to do the dramatic look, he really really wants, turning his head swiftly, pinning his disbelieved eyes right into Daniel’s amused ones (or what he supposes are amused eyes, actually). But he has no willpower whatsoever to change that position he has wedged himself into; moving would mean abandoning the cocoon of that half-hug and that’s a no, for Max. So, he just blurts out a chocked snort, fluttering eyelashes trembling for a second.

“You kidding, right? Daniel…” and here Max makes a pause, because dramatic effect would have required a surname he doesn't know, but he isn’t keen on dwelling onto that train of thoughts. Not in that moment, not when he is so at peace he could melt right there, right now. “You telling me you are stealing from poor old ladies? Shame on you, young mister.” 

Daniel laughs and Max has heard that laugh so many times, but never - _never_ \- cracked right against his temple, rolling all over his frozen face. Daniel’s lips are lost among his curls and Max feels the pressure of their touch against the scalp. It’s scorching hot, and it seems like he can’t shake it off from him, the rom-com feeling that everything is amplified, when Daniel is either concerned or directly involved. 

“I don’t steal, asshole. They offer me meals. Because I am a good person that protects them.” Daniel words are still mumbled among Max’s nest of hair, so when Daniel says another little word, for the first time since they’ve met, Max isn’t able to get it properly. 

“What did you say?” he asks, pressing a little more into Daniel’s touch. Maybe he really doesn’t want to hear it, maybe he just wants Daniel to get even closer. At one point in the night, if they keep that up, they’ll probably fuse into a single person. 

“Ricciardo.” Daniel says, louder, _stronger_. There is something assolute in the tone he has just used. Max is puzzled, he doesn’t think he is supposed to understand what it means, but at the same time it feels important. Somehow, the air has shifted a bit and Max can feel Daniel’s worried breath reverberating against his cheek. 

“I am not sure I understand?” Max asks, quietly, trying to wrap the hem of his sweatshirt around his frozen fingers. Daniel takes both of his hands, and he is so delicate while putting them in the pocket of his own jacket (Max didn't know he could get cold even in that furnace he obnoxiously wear every day.)

“It’s my surname. Daniel Ricciardo.” 

It is deafening, the silence that has just engulfed the both of them. Max doesn’t know what to say, what he _should_ say. There is this giant rock that has crushed his stomach and Max is so baffled his tongue feels almost detached. He really wants to say it out loud, to see how it sounds on his swollen lips. He wants to whisper it, heartbeat against heartbeat, the quite night as the only witness to that confession.   

Daniel is trusting him with a lot. And getting naked like that, in front of him, makes Max a giddy, terrified mess. Daniel is slowly giving him bits and pieces of his life, the one outside the vigilante activities. It’s not just a surname, it’s a sign of utter and complete trust. Max could Google him, find him on Facebook. He could discover his face, his clique of friends. Where he went to school. 

Everything. 

He won’t do it, though. Because he is a well-mannered, patient person. He’ll wait until Daniel is ready, until everything will fall into place on its own. Daniel squeezes his hand, nervous and unsure, so Max smiles brightly, leaving his favorite position to plant his crystal irises into Daniel’s fuzzy ones.

“Daniel Ricciardo. The infamous Theft of Poor Old Ladies.” Max whispers, a playful smile dancing onto his mouth. Daniel smiles back, because they get it now. There’s no need to dissect all that is said. Sometimes, a stupid joke is enough to convey the feeling; for Max to let Daniel know he is really content for this leap of faith. For Daniel, to tell Max he is in, one hundred percent in. With all his heart, _in_. 

“Stop!” Daniel blurts, that single word getting almost stuck between his giggles, an unusual and sincere happiness that gets somehow reflected all over his body. “Now, eat some chips. Let’s watch the stars.”  

Max is back to nestling his head against Daniel’s shoulder, “Yeah. Let’s do it.” 

 

-

 

Max is literally in the middle of his shift, hands busy and quick while they stitch the umpteenth knife cut of the night. It’s only midnight, the wind is howling strong and scary, outside the tiny windows of the hospital, but the truth is, despite everything, Max isn’t particularly tired. For all that matters, he can still keep his eyes open, even though hours of doing the same movement are making his fingers quite stiff.

He dismisses the patient with a reassuring smile and his usual “keep it clean”, met with a scared and rushed nod. He should get used to saying that to his vigilante friends, to be fair, because they never ever are careful enough not to get the wound infected. Two hands won’t be enough to count the times one of them has rushed back to Max’s place, claiming to be in incommensurable pain and sporting a severe infection that made everything more gross than it could have been if only they weren’t so damn stubborn. 

Max paddles toward the cafeteria, because he may not be tired right now but he has a long shift ahead and he needs that coffe keeping him on his toes. His boss, the head physician of the E.R, gives him a twitch of the head as the only acknowledgment; not that Max had expected any different, actually. It’s not a mere causality he and Nico, his colleague, call him The Monster. They should have actually came up with a better name, because it is a tad too overused and basic, but the truth is neither of them has enough fantasy and _monster_ is pretty explicative, as a nickname. So they will stick with that. 

“Oh ehi, Max.” Marcus, another one of his colleagues, stops him on track, before he even had the opportunity to see the cafeteria appear into his peripheral vision. Max would love to grunt his protest, but he is a polite guy, so he just plasters a shaky smile on his face. 

“A certain Pierre is looking for you?” Marcus mumbles, shuffling the paper in front of him with a nervous mechanicalness. Max’s senses come alive in the span of a heartbeat. He is hyperaware now of the waiting room, buzzy and noisy on his left; he hears coughs and laughters and words mumbled together, one against the other. He doesn’t recognize his friend’s voice, but it is also true that there is blood, running through his ears. Making everything more confused, blurred. 

A rush of worry and adrenaline freezing his head and making his blood boil. 

“What happened?” he demands, left hand gripping tight onto the table. Marcus keeps looking down at his papers, because that’s what he usually do; Max and Nico often wonders if he is cabale of somehow looking in front of him or if his neck has been bent so much, into that position, it somehow ended up stuck like that. 

“I don’t know, he is in the waiting room. He just said something happened to a bull? Look, he told me you would get it.”  

Max gets it. Of course he does. He gets it so bad his inside are literally churning. He wasn’t tired before, it’s true, but if he had been, right now he would have probably woken up in the blink of an eye. Which is also all the time he needs to literally launch himself into the waiting room, a distraught “thank you” tossed, to Marcus, over his jittery shoulder.  

The waiting room is packed, but Max is letting all those noises and screams run all over him. There’ll be other nurses and first years to take care of that. He has his own personal lives to save. 

He spots Pierre, sit in the corner, slouched against the wall. Charles is with him, head low, his elegant fingers busy scratching imaginary mosquitos bites on his forehead. They are both dressed in normal clothes, which is obvious since they are in a public place; but, at the same time, Max can’t help but hope the fact they had enough time to get changed means Daniel is not in such a bad shape.  

“Pierre - Charles, hey,” Max whispers, slaloming all over cuts and bruises and running kids. Pierre lifts his gaze: he doesn't look particularly worried; there is a spark of apprehension, making his eyes watery but all in all, they don’t look as sick as they did they infamous day of the gun shot.

“Max. We’re really sorry but we didn’t think waiting was a good idea. We know you’re busy and we didn’t want to disturb you here but—“ Pierre is doing his trademark nervous talk, the one where he splits all the word outside his mouth without even thinking twice about them. It’s an habit Max has almost inherited, after all those years spent in direct contact with it. He sits on the small table in front of them. Charles actually looks more worried that Max will get pissed about them crushing there during his work hours, rather than being worried about whatever the fuck happened to Daniel.

So, Max brings them back on the railway. 

“Yeah, no worry. So, what happened to D—“ he stops immediately, biting his tongue with such an intensity he is afraid the damage has been actually done to him. He is so used to refer to Daniel with his real name, he didn’t even realize that maybe he still hasn't shared it with the other. He clears his throat,because his brain was already flying toward a string of thought Max is not authorized to dwell onto right now, before murmuring a solid, “Bull?”

“Got a concussion, we think. Nothing big, you know. But he seems really confused. We are a bit worried, to be honest.” Charles says, quickly, because Pierre looked like he was about to launch into another monologue and that really wasn't what Max needed in that moment. 

“Where is he?” Max enquires, head jerking around to catch at least a glimpse of that yellow suit he has learned to appreciate during the months. 

“In the car. With Lewis and Sebastian.” 

Charles didn’t even have time to finish the sentence that Max was already running outside of the hospital, searching for a rusty black Camaro and that stupid, self-sacrificing Bull of his. 

           

-

 

“Oh no, you called Max. _Noooo_.” 

This is the sentence Max is greeted with, as soon as he climbs into that old clunker Pierre keeps calling “car”. Daniel is throwing a tantrum, in that moment, making silly childish voices probably as a new form of protest no one informed Max of. There are no other words in which Max could have described it, because Daniel is all grumpy and curled up, hands swatting away every Sebastian’s attempt to check on him. And maybe Max is too biased because instead of finding it annoying, he finds it extremely endearing. 

“Maxie, I’m sorry — they bothered you at work. I am fine. I have been telling them since before.” Daniel says, pleading eyes fluttering right into Max’s fogged ones. Max can’t help but smile, stretching his arm to check on Daniel’s pulse. It is a steady drum, under his fingertips. 

Daniel doesn’t seem to be in pain; except for the fact that he has regressed to a five years old, he appears in perfect shape. Shining smile and ninja senses included. 

“No one bothered no one, how about that, mh? Now can you stay still, so I can check your vitals?” Max snickers, sparing a grateful glance to Sebastian and Lewis, while they both get out of the car to give them all the space they need. Max cradles Daniel’s head between his icy hands; his fingers are still numb, but the sensation of Daniel’s warmth is enough to bring them back to life. He doesn’t move, he just stays like that, Daniel’s cheek pressed against his palm, skin against cotton. And the change is almost minimal, but Max can perceive it, Daniel sliding onto the seat to better fit into the cocoon of his hand. 

“How am I doctor?” Daniel asks; his voice is grave and low but the delight jumps out at every vowel, making him sound more like a mad men than someone who has just got a concussion. 

“It doesn’t seem bad, actually. But I still have to run some quick tests. You know, like in the movies.” 

Daniel snorts but he gets comfy, plopping one leg onto Max’s, “Yes, doctor.” 

Max huffs a half-eaten giggle, rummaging trough his pockets to get that little very professional flashlight he always carries around. He points it at Daniel’s right eye, to check whether there is good reaction. He can’t see much, though, just a glimpse of his shining brown irises contracting, trying to shy away from the blinding light.  

“Can you just, pull down the mask a little bit? On the eye, I mean. I can’t see much. It’s too dark, here.” Max grumbles, squaring his shoulder because he can almost feel it, Daniel’s protest. He waits for it to be mumbled and slurred right against his ear, a counter attack ready on his tongue, because he gets the secrecy, but he really isn't asking him to take it off entirely. Just an inch, to allow him to have a proper vision; Daniel’s security comes first, in all fairness.  

Daniel doesn’t protest, though. He gently pulls at the hem of his mask, sticking his face right into Max’s. 

“Better?” he teases and Max would love to tell him “actually no, since you are breathing in my face and I’m really distracted” but he keeps silent, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

He points the flashlight back at Daniel’s eyes. It’s not better for real, because there are no external lights and the shadow of Daniel’s mask keeps getting in the way. Max sighs, frustrated. 

“Dan, hey,” Max’s voice lingers for a bit on unsaid words, but then he realizes he has to be sure. More sure than he is going to be if he relies only on that half-arsed check up. “I can’t do it here, the mask is in the way and I can’t see anything. We can go back into the hospital, a secluded room will do the magic and I—“ 

Max is clumsy. He has always been. Always absent-minded, always cramming so many things together, ending up doing a terrible job in every single one of them. And his brain, don’t get him started on his uncooperative brain, too busy thinking and _over_ thinking even the silliest detail, to the point Max has so many things to juggle and keep in place, in that mind of his, he can’t properly focus on anything. 

That’s exactly what happened in that moment, to be honest. He was so occupied with his worries, and his need to convince Daniel that a glimpse of his face will not make him really see or understand anything, he forgot he was still holding the flashlight. The same flashlight that is now on the floor of the car, probably stashed in the darkest point since Max can’t even make it out its outlines. 

(Also Pierre’s car is not only an old cart, but also an incredibly dirty piece of trash, a receptacle of discharged water bottles, sandwiches’ packages and things Max probably doesn’t really want to know the utility or the purpose of.)  

He stuffs his head in that jungle of junk, grunting and gasping, hands navigating trough a sea of dense black. He really doesn’t want to know what the hell he is touching in that moment, he will just proceed to wash his hands with the strongest disinfectant that hospital possesses.

“Daniel, can you turn on that little light over there?” Max asks, or tries too, actually. His voice feels distant, muffled by the fabric of the seats and his own jeans, where half of his face has ended up getting smashed. Damn dwarf, Pierre Gasly, and his damn car. 

“Thanks!” he echoes, when a little bit more luminosity is shed all over his feet. It takes him another two minutes of frenetic research to finally find and grab the flashlight, that of course had ended up getting stuck right under the driver’s seat. He reemerges with a huff, flicking the curls away from his sweaty forehead. He didn't know three seconds in Pierre’s backseats would result into shortness of breath and a drenched coat. 

“Okay, I am rea—“

But Max Verstappen, for the second time in the span of five minutes, is suddenly let unable to finish his sentence. This time, though, he can’t blame it on his lack of attention; he should probably point his finger toward his traitor heart. He has never been so baffled, stricken to the point his brain has probably short circuited, leaving him with no braincells and a tongue so tied, not even the faintest sound would get out. He tries, but the only thing he can pronounce is a chocked “ _gneah_ ” that means absolutely nothing.  

Or maybe it means that Max has definitely gone mad. 

Because right then, in that instant, in that moment, he is looking directly into a pair of perfectly visible eyes; lashes so long and fluttering they could win the Longest Lashes competition. However, that’s not the only thing he can see: he can also spot a mountain of brown curls, a nest of rebel chocolate hair sticking all over the place, begging Max to to touch it, to put his hand right trough it.  

Then there are lips. Cherry red and full, just like Max had imagined them to be. They are softly curled into a grin and Max would like to wipe it off Daniel with one hundred kisses. 

It is a face, what he is looking at. An incredibly attractive face, at that. And Max is not sure of what he is really feeling; there are too many emotions swirling into his stomach, he doesn’t know which on he should focus on. He is literally mesmerized. 

His eyes are a crazy mess, not knowing where to stop, where to linger. It’s a race, his irises soaking into the warmth of Daniel’s ones, then rushing over his lips. Pinning on his high cheekbones, staring so hard at the blush that the hot temperature has made appear all over Daniel’s face.

He can’t believe it, that he is finally looking at it. That Daniel is all there. _Daniel Ricciardo_. A name, a face. An history, bits and pieces of a whole life coming together, flowing in the air, getting mingled together. 

Max is confused and his numb fingers try to grasp all those pieces, to put them together. They keep running all over the place and Max literally throws himself at them, letting every piece of Daniel’s life wash over him, surround him. He doesn't need to get, he wants to _feel_. But, most of all, he wants to touch. A need so strong he can feel it reverberate against his fingertips. 

He stretches his hand, resting it on Daniel’s cheek. And they were in the exact same position less than ten minutes ago; somehow, though, it is different. All the senses are amplified, the warmth of Daniel’s skin flashing right against his. 

It is almost like Max can _capture_ the emotions, trough that simple touch. Holding them between his trembling little hands.  

“It’s your face. Oh my God.” Max whispers, even though he didn’t know where he found the voice to do so. He sounds unsure, unsteady, letters slowly climbing out of his tongue, trying to arginate the lump of everything and what ifs that has planted right at the base of his trachea.  

He would have loved to keep dwelling onto that ethereal state of bliss, but he had to say something to tame that sort of anticipation that was flashing into Daniel’s eyes. Those eyes that he now can see, in all their beauty, every hint, every movement of his lashes, every single thought, reflected into those brown stars.  

“Yeah, Max. It’s my face. Good observation.” Daniel sounds pretty nonchalant, and it is different -oh so different- to be able to completely see his lips while he speaks, no black fabric to slide all over them. Max notices a small twitch of his mouth, a light, almost imperceptible, tic on his right eye. He soaks every single one of those particularities, trying to impress them on his pupils.  

“Why you did it? Not just because I couldn’t check on you right? Like, I am really glad you did — I am! I just want you to do it because you want, not because you have to. What am I even saying?” 

Max is doing it again, letting his brain do the talking. He can’t help but to blurt out that rushed, confused monologue he can feel blossoming on the tip of his tongue whenever he is either nervous or stressed. In this case, he is both.  

He is holding his breath, but his eyes are unable to divert from Daniel’s face. 

It has been concealed from him for so long, it feels like staring at it for years won’t be enough to make up for the time he has lost. 

“I wanted to. Anyway, I am too handsome to keep hiding myself from the world.” Daniel says, back to his usual cheerful self. Max feels relieved, a lazy smile stretching his lips to the point it starts to hurt. 

He wants to say something corny, because it is true, that Daniel is an handsome devil. Even with that hideous suit, he still was. But he keeps silent, because he still has some dignity to preserve, _thank you very much_. 

His hand is still curled on Daniel’s cheek and he moves it in an elegant swift of swirling fingers and Daniel’s mumbles of disappointment. Three seconds later, his fingers are finally dipped right into Daniel’s mop of curls. And if that wasn't satisfactory enough, Daniel’s content sigh actually is. 

When Daniel gets closer, Max can sense what is coming. He is pleasantly surprised to discover Daniel’s lips taste like summer nights and promises; nights spent stargazing, the warm sea breeze gently caressing the skin. It feels like the sun, shining directly against his face. Like strawberries and salt, small touches shared underwater. Like being lost in the middle of a desert road, hand in hand, the future ahead looking like a catwalk of shared dreams.  

Max’s heart isn’t steady, how could it be; it’s more like a tumultuous drumming, pumping right against his ribcage. At the same time, though, Max has never been more at peace. Sparks of blissfulness flashing all over them, their hands frantically touching and pulling and caressing. It’s fire and it’s a relaxing lullaby; it resembles that oxymoron made of menacing weaves crashing against the rocks, viciously, but resulting into the softest sound. That familiar, relaxing, rustling.  

“Max?” Daniel enquires after a while. After they have kissed again and again, probably leaving Lewis and Sebastian to freeze their poor too-good asses. Max doesn’t want to move, because is forehead is pressed against Daniel’s and he can see so much, when he is so close. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, he is too afraid doing so would make Daniel’s face vanish from his memory. He knows he won’t be able to see it frequently, that he will have to live on memory for days, maybe weeks. So he just mumbles to demonstrate his attention, still fixated on memorizing every mole that has ever caressed that face. 

“I think I am confussed.” Daniel giggles, as if he has said the funniest joke ever, gently pocking Max’s arm with his finger. 

“What do you mean?” 

Daniel snickers some more, too busy complimenting himself to share his own silly little joke with Max. Max has all the time of the world, though, and he waits. He’d wait forever, if he could. 

“I mean,” Daniel says, when he has managed to sober up “I am confused and concussed. _Confussed_. I made up a new word.” 

Max wants to cry, because that is the silliest thing he has heard during that long, extenuating night. And he has heard some, especially from the old lady that came sporting a first degree burn on his wrist. But he can’t say something mean, or even remotely unimpressed; Daniel’s face is too radiant, too bright, too _everything_. And Max is so in love he has no heart to wipe the smile off that face.

They have so many things to discuss, so many unsaid stuff that will haunt them later on. But in that crystalized moment, in that rusty car, where only the two of them exist, Max can feel his heart burst with love and passion. He is so overwhelmed, millions of different sensations rushing at him, jumping all over his organs, his bones. So,he just laughs. Like that. A satisfaction that, in another moment, he would have never given to Daniel.  

And when he gets back to cuddling, the tip of his nose pressed against Daniel’s and their lips mere inch away from each other, he realizes he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. 

 


End file.
